A "flocker" is a large, clumsy looking wooden machine, four or five feet in length, and just wide enough to take on the cloth, which at that mill was all made double width. It consists chiefly of heavy rollers, so arranged that the cloth passes between them. There is a deep pit at the bottom of the machine, which will hold several bushels of "flocks," in addition to the bulk of a large web of cloth, from forty to fifty yards in length.

"Your name is Carl, I believe," said Fred, by way of introducing himself.

"Yes, Carl; that's it."

"My name is Fred Worthington. I think we shall get along together."

"I hope so," returned Carl sincerely, and continued: "The first thing to do is to put the cloth into the machine and set it running."

Then, showing how to do this, he added:

"Now we start it up by switching this belt so" (moving the belt from the loose to the stationary pulley).

"What's the object in running cloth through here?" inquired Fred; for though he had always lived in Mapleton, yet in truth his knowledge of a woolen factory was very limited, and in this respect he did not differ much from the majority of the villagers.

"It is to make it weigh more, and to give it a body, so it can be finished," replied the boy, while he turned a basketful of flocks upon the revolving rollers between which the beaver cloth was now swiftly passing.

"But why do you call that stuff 'flocks'?" inquired Fred. "It looks like the fine dust that we find at the end of our pants and coats, where it settles down against the hems."

"Well, that's just what it is."

"I thought everybody called that shoddy."

"I know they do, and I used to do so myself before I came here."

"But what are the 'flocks' that we have here made of?"

"Old rags."

"I thought shoddy was made from old rags."

"They are both made from them. The best ones are put into shoddy, and the odds and ends into flocks."

"Well, if this stuff is flocks, how is shoddy made, and what does it look like?"

"It is something like wool. The rags are fed into a 'picker' up in the 'pick room,' and come out all torn apart.""What is it used for then?"

"It is mixed with a little coarse wool, and carded into rope yarn, the same as wool, ready to be spun."

"The idea of weaving shoddy into cloth is new to me. It can't make very good cloth."

"Well, they only use it for the back of the cloth. Here, look at this piece! See; it is white on one side and brown on the other. The white side is the face, and is made from good wool. You see we are beating these flocks in on the back side."

"Yes, I see you are; and now as you've told me about shoddy, I'd like to know about flocks, for that's what I have got to handle, I suppose."

"I guess you'll know all you want to about them before you've been here long. I'm 'bout dead from being in this dust so much. It fills a feller all up. See how thick it is now, and you're drawing it in with every breath."

By this time the other machine was ready for action, and Carl, finding that they were short of flocks, gave Fred a basket, took another himself, and both boys started for a fresh supply. They went up stairs, passed through the "gig room," and across a long hall which opened into a little room by itself, where the rag grinders were humming away. This was their destination. Carl filled one of the baskets with flocks and the other with ground rags; then turning to Fred, said:

"You wanted to know about flocks and how they are made. This is the first machine they go through. You see that pile of rags and odds and ends. When they have been run through here, they will come out cut up fine, like those I just put in your basket. Now we will go back, and I will show you the next process they go through."

Each of the boys now shouldered his basket and returned down the stairs. There Carl turned his flocks upon the cloth that was rapidly being filled, and then emptied the contents of the other basket into a tub or tank, which was about five feet wide by fifteen long. It was full of thick, muddy looking water, which was rapidly going round the tank.

It struck Fred as a curious proceeding when he saw the fine cut rags thrown into that place; it looked to him very much like throwing them away, and he was about to ask an explanation when Carl satisfied his curiosity by saying:

"This is the wet grinder. We put the rags in here, and run them in water about three hours until they are ground up as fine as can be, and look just like porridge."

"What do you do with the porridge?"

"Do you see these little bags at this end of the tank? We bail it out into them, and after the water strains out a little, we tie them up and load them on one of these cars and run them out to the 'extractor.'"

"What kind of a thing is an extractor?"

"It is something that shakes the water out. It has a big basket inside that goes around like lightning."

"I'd like to see it; where is it?"

"Come into this next room; here it is."

On entering the room Fred's eyes fairly stuck out with amazement. He had already seen more queer machines that morning than he had ever imagined had been made, but here was something that surpassed them all. It consisted of a large cast iron cylinder, about six feet in diameter and four feet high. Inside was a wire basket, which nearly filled up the vacant space. This rested on a pivot, and from the top of it extended upward a short shaft, the end of which was connected with a small pulley.

The tender of the machine had just put in two whole pieces of double width beaver cloth dripping wet from the washers, and was now starting up the machine slowly.

Pretty soon it commenced to whirl around rather rapidly, then the speed increased as the power was let on, until a buzz was heard, which quickly gave way to a singing, hissing sound; now followed a spark, then another and another in quick succession, and the whole rim of the extractor seemed a perfect blaze.

Fred thought it was going to pieces, and jumped backward for safety; but by the time he got where he supposed himself out of danger the tender had shifted the belt to the loose pulley, and by applying the brake had stopped the whirl of the basket.

Carl laughed at Fred's timidity, and said:

"What were you frightened about? The extractor 'most always does that way, only it was a little worse this time, because it probably wasn't loaded even. That's why the fire flew so. Just see how it took the water out of the cloth. That's the way it does to the flocks."

Fred felt the cloth, and, knowing that two minutes before it was sopping wet, now found it was only a little damp. The boys returned to the flockers and straightened out the cloth and got it running even; then Carl took a car load of the extracted flocks up to the drier, where they were spread thinly upon it.

The drier is simply a frame upon which is nailed a large surface of wire sieving, directly under which are coils of hot steam pipes. On this drier the flocks become baked dry, and are about as hard as dry mud.

"It seems to me that these rags have to go through different machines enough before they get ready for use. I wonder what the next step is?" said Fred.

"Only one more machine—the one where you saw me fill my basket with flocks. I suppose you noticed that it had a big hopper on top? Well, we just turn these dry lumps right in here, and let them grind out as fast as they will."

"Then I've been the rounds of our work, have I?" asked Fred.

"Yes, unless Mr. Hanks makes you lug the cloth down."

"Am I supposed to obey him?"

"Yes, he's your boss; and you will be lucky if you have no trouble with him."

"I shall try to have no trouble, even if he is as disagreeable as he looks; but I will not be crowded too much."

"I wouldn't if I was strong like you," returned Carl sadly.

"I thought Mr. Farrington had charge of this room," said Fred, after a pause.

"He does; though I believe he had a lot of trouble to keep these flockers a-going; it is such bad, dirty work that no one would stay on them. So he made a trade with Mr. Hanks, and let him the job of making the flocks and putting them into the cloth, and agreed to furnish him two boys. I don't know how much pay he gets out of it, but Jack Hickey, that's scouring the wool there in the other corner, says he is making money out of us every day; besides, he shirks the work upon us, and we have it almost all to do."

"Hanks—Christopher Hanks," said Fred to himself, with a curious drawl through his nose; "not a pleasant sounding name."