If one man dropped out a minute to breathe and rest when exhausted,
another sprang into his place, and toiled and strove like an engine.
There was something great and inspiring even to look on at those mighty
efforts--something exhilarating and elevating in the play of muscles
like great long shooting serpents under the glistening skins of the men.
Arms shot out, tugged and tore, jerked and wrenched, then doubled up and
the muscles became knots, bulging out as if they would break through the
skin, as the great blocks were lifted; and then the blocks were cast
into the tub, the knots untied themselves, and slipped elastically back
into their places, and the serpents were momentarily at rest until the
body bent again to another block. Out and in they flew, supple and
silent, quick as lightning playing in the heavens; they zig-zagged and
shot this way and that, tying and untying themselves, darting out and
doubling back, advancing and retiring in rhythmic action, graceful and
easy, powerful and inevitable. Bending and rising, the swaying bodies
gleamed and glistened with greasy dust and sweat, catching the gleams
from the lamps and reflecting them in every streaming pore.
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