And Bibbs, who had never before been of any age, either old or young, had come to his youth at last.
He went whistling from the house before even his father had come down-stairs.

There was a fog outdoors, saturated with a fine powder of soot, and though Bibbs noticed absently the dim shape of an automobile at the curb before Roscoe's house, he did not recognize it as Dr.
Gurney's, but went cheerily on his way through the dingy mist.

And when he was once more installed beside his faithful zinc-eater he whistled and sang to it, as other workmen did to their own machines sometimes, when things went well.

His comrades in the shop glanced at him amusedly now and then.

They liked him, and he ate his lunch at noon with a group of Socialists who approved of his ideas and talked of electing him to their association.
The short days of the year had come, and it was dark before the whistles blew.