" This meant that they accused one another
of being ever hungry for bundles of raw material, ever eager to
"gobble up all the work in the shop." I wondered how one could
be anxious for physical toil. They seemed to be a lot of savages
The idea of leaving the shop often crossed my mind, but I never
had the courage to take it seriously. I had tried my hand at
peddling and failed.
Was I a failure as a mechanic as well? Was I unfit for anything?
The other fellows at the shop had a definite foothold in life, while
I was a waif, a ne'er-do-well, nearly two years in America with
nothing to show for it.
Thoughts such as these had a cowing effect on me. They made me
feel somewhat like the fresh prisoner who has been put to work at
stone-breaking to have his wild spirit broken. I dared not give up
my new occupation. I would force myself to work hard, and as I
did so the very terrors of my toil would fascinate me, giving me a
sense of my own worth. As the jackets that bore my stitches kept
piling up, the concrete result of my useful performance would
become a source of moral satisfaction to me.
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