The new munition plant was nearing completion. Situated on the outskirts
of the city, it spread over a vast area of what had once been waste
land. Of the three long buildings, two were already in operation and the
third was well under way.

To Clayton Spencer it was the realization of a dream. He never entered
the great high-walled enclosure without a certain surprise at the ease
with which it had all been accomplished, and a thrill of pride at the
achievement. He found the work itself endlessly interesting. The casts,
made of his own steel, lying in huge rusty heaps in the yard; the little
cars which carried them into the plant; the various operations by which
the great lathes turned them out, smooth and shining, only to lose their
polish when, heated again, they were ready for the ponderous hammer to
close their gaping jaws. The delicacy of the work appealed to him,
the machining to a thousandth of an inch, the fastidious making of the
fuses, tiny things almost microscopic, and requiring the delicate touch
of girls, most of whom had been watchmakers and jewelry-workers.

And with each carload of the finished shells that left the plant he felt
a fine glow of satisfaction. The output was creeping up. Soon they would
be making ten thousand shells a day. And every shell was one more chance
for victory against the Hun. It became an obsession with him to make
more, ever more.