The Story of Porcelain Part 20

Theo followed him into the hall.

It was interesting to notice that as the man pa.s.sed along he exchanged a word or two with every employee he met, calling many of them by name, and in some cases adding a question concerning the wife or baby at home. That the men liked their employer there could be no question.

His manner toward them was one of unaffected interest and friendliness, and was entirely free from patronage or condescension.

His private office, too, was of the simplest type, being neatly but not lavishly furnished. Evidently what was good enough for his men was good enough for him. There were, however, in the two great windows several boxes of blossoming plants which made the room fragrant.

"I am very fond of flowers, Theo," explained the mill-owner after he had greeted his office force and introduced his guest. "It is my weak spot--my one big extravagance. This room has just the exposure for plants and we keep the boxes filled the year round. The boys have nicknamed the place _the conservatory_ and the jest has stuck until n.o.body thinks of calling the place anything else. If you were to ask a man to come to the office he would have to scratch his head and think; but if you told him he was wanted in the conservatory he would land here double quick. Isn't that so?" concluded Mr. Croyden, turning to the others.

Every one smiled and nodded.

Mr. Croyden hung up his hat and motioning Theo to do the same turned to encounter a pile of mail that lay on his desk.

"Bless my soul, this is too bad!" he exclaimed. "Don't tell me that to-day when I had planned to make a tour through the factory Uncle Sam has come down on me with all this stuff!"

He glanced ruefully at the letter lying topmost on the heap; then at the second one.

"I am afraid these will have to be attended to, Theo," he said with regret. "Should you be dreadfully disappointed if I were to turn you over to some one else for a part of your factory pilgrimage?"

"No, indeed, sir."

"I am sorry, but I guess that is what I shall have to do," declared Mr. Croyden. "You can make a start, and later in the morning I will try to join you myself."

He touched a bell.

"Send Marwood to me," he said to the boy.

"Mr. Marwood is a splendidly informed man, Theo; and more than that, he is a delightful one. You will enjoy him, and I have a notion he will enjoy you. He likes boys--has three of his own, lucky fellow! Ah, here he comes now. Mr. Marwood, this is my young friend, Theo Swift of New York."

The boy put out his hand shyly.

The eyes that met his were of the kindliest blue; and the face they illumined was ruddy, wholesome, and alert.

Instantly Theo decided that since Mr. Croyden himself could not be his guide he had at least provided a very pleasant subst.i.tute.

"Theo wants to see everything there is to be seen, Jack," continued Mr. Croyden. "Tote him all about and answer all his questions; and above all be thorough, even if you do not cover very much ground during the morning. I want the processes carefully explained, for this boy may be a china-maker himself some day. If I do not join you before noontime bring all that is left of him back to the conservatory so I can take him to lunch."

Mr. Marwood laughed, and so did Theo.

Then they pa.s.sed out.

"Good luck!" called Mr. Croyden after them as he turned to take up his mail.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XV

HOW PORCELAIN IS MADE

"We'll go to the slip-house first where the clay bins are,"

Mr. Marwood said to Theo, "that you may start at the very beginning of things. That is where the cars run in and unload the raw material."

They walked down a long corridor and rang for the elevator.

As the car shot to the bas.e.m.e.nt Theo noticed a change in the appearance of the factory. On every floor they pa.s.sed there was a hum of machinery and a glimpse of endless rows of china dishes; they stood on shelves; they covered tables; they were stacked one within another upon long counters.

"Some dishes, eh?" Mr. Marwood laughed, reading the boy's thought.

"I never saw so many in my life!"

"You will see many more before you are through," remarked his companion.

The elevator brought up with a jerk.

"Here we are!" exclaimed Mr. Marwood. "At least this is our way into the slip-house."

He led Theo through a pa.s.sage and across a court into the adjoining building.

Here a white powder covered everything. Men who hurried by in overalls and caps were dusty as millers, their hands being coated to the finger tips with dried clay.

Mr. Marwood stepped forward into the long, cement-floored bas.e.m.e.nt and pointed to the tracks embedded in it.

"It is on these tracks," he said, "that the cars come in and deposit their contents in the bins. The bins are of a pretty good size, you see. They measure about sixteen by thirty-two feet, and each one will hold eight car-loads of clay. After the different kinds of clay are unloaded and placed in their respective bins, the proper combination for specific varieties of porcelain must be weighed out and mixed in the 'blungers,' as we call the mixing tanks. Now this body formula, or clay combination, is not entrusted to the ordinary workman. It is kept secret. Therefore we have on the trucks that carry the clay between the bins and the blungers what we call charging-scales, which weigh automatically each ingredient in the compound without betraying it to the loader."

"That is pretty clever," replied Theo.

"Yes, it is a very ingenious device," Mr. Marwood agreed. "The blungers in which the clay is mixed are over there. You can see them--those great machines near the centre of the floor. They are heavy steel tanks lined with vitrified brick, and in the middle of each one is a revolving contrivance, with steel arms and teeth that grind the clay up very fine and blend it thoroughly. While it is being mixed in this way water is added to it, and also a certain amount of powdered oxide of cobalt to whiten it."

"Just as we put blueing in clothes," Theo ventured.

Mr. Marwood a.s.sented.

"This cobalt has already been pulverized and sifted most carefully, so there will be no particles in it, and so it will readily dissolve. After the clay mixture has had this mauling--for I can call it nothing else--the blunged compound, or slip, flows in liquid form into the sifter machines where it is strained through silk gauze or else a mesh of fine copper wire."

"I shouldn't think you could ever strain such stuff," Theo declared.

"The sifters do get very hard wear," answered Mr. Marwood, "and are the machines most liable to get out of order. They become clogged. Our sifters are self-cleaning. By that I mean they have an attachment which removes the waste obstructing them. Nevertheless, even with this improvement they still bother us at times. If you watch this sifting machine carefully you can see that the method is one of sliding the slip back and forth until it is forced through the straining ducts."

"And then what becomes of it?"

They walked on and stopped before another machine.

"This is a rough agitator," explained Mr. Marwood. "Into it is pumped the liquid slip you just saw strained, and afterward this is brought in contact with a series of horseshoe magnets which extract from the mixture every atom of iron."