The thread: Measured, not claimed — page 5
What holds a crest apart
Two half periods meet at every crest of every course and, in this collection's model, run within a fiftieth of a yarn diameter of one another for more than a millimetre. In a fabric what holds them apart is the loop of the next course drawn between them — which is the loop this model does not have.
A crease cannot cross a seam
The outer layer of a folded stack has further to go than the inner, by the fold's angle times the stack's own thickness. A four-layer seam of quarter-millimetre cloth taken through a half turn needs its outer layer to be 2.45 millimetres longer than its inner — and a stitch line every three millimetres has pinned them. So the fold opens out where it crosses the seam, which is what a trouser crease visibly does, and the arithmetic gives the radius it opens to.
A damask is the only figure that costs its beam nothing
Figure and ground consume warp at different rates, and the difference accumulates down the length of the figure. An eight-end satin figure on a plain ground puts its two regions fourteen per cent apart, which on a loom absorbing a millimetre of slack bounds the figure at eight and a half millimetres. A damask's two regions are the same satin used two ways, so complementation leaves both float lengths where they were — and their crimps are identical rather than close, to the last bit of a double.
A cotton's own water is a twentieth of what a cloth holds
A wet cloth keeps water in three places and only one of them is the fibre. A sheeting saturated holds 113 per cent of its own dry weight: 7.5 per cent of that inside the cotton as regain, 39 per cent in the channels between the fibres of its yarns, and 54 per cent in the holes four threads bound. The same construction in polyester, whose regain is a fortieth of cotton's, holds 105 per cent — an eight-point difference from a fortyfold one, because absorbency is a geometry with a fibre in it rather than a fibre with a geometry round it.
No cloth derives into more than three others
Every weaving manual opens by saying the three basic weaves generate the rest. This collection counted the reach and found nine of 426, and left the nine as a count. It is not a count: every derivation the manuals name is a relabelling of the grid or a complementation of it, both invertible, so they generate a group — and that group cuts the 426 cloths into 157 closed pieces of which the largest holds four. The claim is not merely wrong about how much derivation reaches; derivation cannot reach more than four cloths from anywhere, by any sequence of operations, however long.
How little asymmetry a curl needs
A model with a thickness can finally be asked why stockinette rolls. It answers that it does not — its curling moment is exactly zero, by a symmetry — and the useful part is what that costs to break: five per cent of a yarn diameter buys the whole of the curl anybody has ever seen.
What a high-twist yarn costs a cloth
Twist buys strength up to a point and then loses it, and everything else it does is a cost. A crepe twist is chosen knowing that, and the trade's twist limits are a balance among five quantities that this collection can now put beside one another.
A tube of one size presses the calf harder than the ankle
A band presses a limb with its tension over the limb's radius, so it is easy to conclude that a band grips hardest where the limb is thinnest. That is true of a band held at one tension, and no knitted tube is. A tube knitted to one size is stretched further wherever the leg is thicker, and its tension rises faster than the radius does: an elastic tube pressing an ankle at twenty millimetres of mercury presses the calf at thirty-nine, and a cotton jersey tube presses its calf three and a half times as hard as its ankle. A stocking graduated the other way has to pull hardest where it presses less.
A float limit leaves one row-free satin
A satin is chosen so that no diagonal forms, and an earlier essay found that most of them fail: the interlacings lie on a lattice, every lattice has a shortest step, and the marks line up along it unless two steps tie — which happens at twelve of the thirty-five orders from five to forty. The other constraint was named and not applied. An n-end satin floats over n − 1, so a yarn that will not carry a float longer than eight admits four orders in all, and exactly one of them is row-free: the five-end satin, which is the one everybody already weaves.
A wet fibre is stiffer and a wet yarn is not locked
The intuitive reason a damp cloth stiffens is that water pulls the fibres together — a meniscus is curved, the pressure inside it is below atmospheric, and the suction presses the assembly exactly as twist does. Computed, that suction is worth the first 186 turns a metre of twist and nothing after them: six per cent of what an ordinary yarn's twist already supplies, and nowhere near enough to stop the fibres sliding. What wetting actually does is fatten the fibres, and a fibre's bending rigidity goes as the fourth power of its diameter — so a wet cotton fibre is 2.07 times as stiff with no contact in the argument at all.
A heddle eye lets the kink through
A leno's crossing end is pulled up at its doup and held down at its back standard, and the length that costs was priced as if both heddle eyes were frictionless. They grip, and gripping ought to trap the kink between them at nearly a hundred per cent strain. It does not come close. A capstan bounds a ratio of tensions, not a difference, and the spans either side are already stretched, so at a coefficient of 0.3 the span between the eyes takes 9.48 newtons against 7.08 with no friction at all — a third more, not fifteen times more — and an easer has to give back 67.9 millimetres rather than 64.4. What friction changes more is when the length is wanted.
A net of three directions beats a voile one way at a time
A tulle's threads run three ways at sixty degrees and a voile's run two ways at ninety, so a net hung over a voile could show one family of fringes, three, or a lattice of them. It shows two, at right angles, and they are nothing alike. Along the voile threads that lie parallel to one of the net's, the net beats exactly as a one-directional net does: six-millimetre fringes from three metres. Across them no set of the net lies anywhere near, and the only slow beat comes from a line of points two sets make together at √3 over the net's pitch — fringes four times wider and a fifteenth as strong, with a null at 8.8 metres where the strong family has none.
What a knit gives up when it is pressed
The woven half of this collection has had a compression curve for several rungs — a thickness that falls under load, a bearing area that grows, a pressure at every point. The knitted half had a plan and no depth. It has a relaxed thickness and an initial slope now, and the two fabrics turn out to resist for different reasons.
What a sett is when the yarn is not round
A jamming condition says how close threads can be set, and it says it in terms of a diameter. A thread in a cloth does not have one diameter: it has a wide one and a narrow one, and which of them a jam is about depends on which way the threads are jamming.
A circular machine leans its courses whatever the yarn
Spirality is blamed on the yarn, and the yarn is most of it. The rest is the machine's. A circular knitting machine's needles make wales that run straight along the tube, and its feeders lay one course each per turn, so every course climbs its feeder count in every round: on a 96-feeder machine, 48 millimetres round 162 centimetres of tube, an angle of 1.7 degrees. The helix has no machine size in it, its hand is set by the way the cylinder turns, and it survives every remedy aimed at the yarn — a steamed yarn, a plied one, S and Z on alternate feeders, and a rib.
An inflated beam wrinkles at a moment with no cloth in it
An air-filled tube can be used as a beam because the pressure pulls its cloth taut along its length, and a cloth that cannot carry a push can carry a bending moment for exactly as long as that pull outweighs it. The inside of the bend goes slack at πpr³/2 and the tube folds at πpr³ — seventy-nine and a hundred and fifty-seven newton metres for a tube a fifth of a metre across at half a bar — and there is no property of the cloth in either. The cloth decides how far the beam bends on the way, and how much pressure it can be pumped to.
An irregular satin scatters where a regular one lines up
A regular satin's marks lie on a lattice, so its closest pairs all run along one vector and make a row. An irregular satin has no lattice at all, so its closest pairs may point several ways at once — and at seven and nine ends, where every regular satin at the best spread has a row, an irregular one reaches the same spread with its closest pairs scattered over four directions and no more than a third in any one. At eight and eleven ends there is no such satin: the best spread is reached by regular satins alone, and irregularity has nothing to offer.
A nap is paid for by the taper of the pattern
A raised cloth's fibres lean, so a panel turned end for end shows a different amount of fibre and every piece of a garment has to lie the same way along the bolt. What that costs is not a property of the cloth. A rectangle costs nothing laid one way; a tapered panel costs (1 − r)/(1 + r) of extra cloth in lanes, where r is its narrow width over its wide one; and the best any one-way lay can do is exactly half of that, because a trapezoid's difference body is a hexagon and hexagons tile. On a real width it arrives in whole panel lengths: six skirt gores take 75 centimetres two ways and 150 one way.
A specification can name a cloth that is not there
The three notations measured so far write drafts, and every draft is a cloth somebody could weave. A mill works from none of them: it works from a count, two setts and a weave quoted together, and that is the first notation whose image has holes in it. Of 2,560 specifications across the trade's own working range, 2,097 name no cloth at all — and in the 240 where the weave field decides anything, both numbers the trade quotes to decide it rank the catalogue wrongly.
A thread has a second stiffness
Every mechanical number here came from one material constant: how hard a thread is to bend. A thread also resists being twisted, nothing here has ever used that, and the ratio between the two turns out to be the only stiffness number about a yarn that can be known at all.
What a flattened yarn does to its cover
A cover factor is a sett times a diameter, and it decides how much of a cloth is thread and how much is hole. A flattened yarn is a third wider than a round one of the same area, so a cloth of flattened yarn covers more at the same sett — and every opacity, permeability and shade computed from a round diameter is wrong in one direction.
A grade charges by the length and a cutter pays by the panel
The four-point system scores a fault by how far it runs — one point to three inches, four beyond nine — and caps a linear metre at four points however many faults it holds. A cutting room pays by how many panels the fault lands in. Below a panel's length every fault costs exactly one panel while its score runs from one to four; above it the panels grow without bound and the score does not move at all. Two fifty-metre pieces built to the same 267 points a hundred square metres lose 33 per cent of their panels and 92.
A tuck decides whether a third of two-bed fabrics lean
A jersey leans because every loop is on one bed and a rib does not because its loops are mirrored across two, and the count that says so treated a tuck as nothing. A tuck is a loop of the same lively yarn wrapped round a needle of one bed, and nobody here has measured how much of a knit loop's lean it carries. It matters. Of the 1,135 two-bed fabrics a two-needle, two-course frame can make, 135 are balanced whatever a tuck carries and 612 lean whatever it carries — and 388, a third, are balanced under one answer and lean under the other. A half-cardigan leans a third of a jersey if a tuck carries nothing and not at all if it carries a full loop's torque, which makes it the instrument that would settle the question.
The shortest notation has the longest mistakes
Four essays of this account have asked what each notation can express. None has asked what happens when one is written down wrong, and the answer is an identity rather than a tendency: a notation's symbols partition the cloth, so the count of symbols times the reach of one is the piece, in every notation, with nothing to trade. One threading digit decides 810,000 intersections of a square metre and one of a jacquard's holes decides one — and only the threading can be wrong while the cloth is right.
The second binder buys half of everything
A bouclé's loops are held by their binder, and a snag drags thread from one loop to the next until the thread breaks. The essay before it left that reach at seven binder points on one binder and said a second would square the grip. It does — and because the grip is exponential in the wrap and the reach is a logarithm of it, the reach is exactly inverse in the binder count: 7.43 points, then 3.72, then 2.48. Half of everything any number of binders can buy is bought by the second one, which is how many the trade uses.
A calender works where nothing has been measured
This account has twice recorded that the missing piece is plasticity — what fraction of a flattening survives the nip. The piece is missing for a sharper reason than nobody having written it down. A calender's flattening is a shape strain, and at the lightest setting in this account's own series that is 11 per cent while cotton's elastic recovery is measured from 2 to 5. Six fibres of seven have no data at any setting the machine has, and wool reaches only the lightest. The law cannot be had from the measurements; what can be had is the bracket, and it is a factor of twenty-four.
Twist is not torsion
A curve has a torsion and a material has a twist, they share a word, and only one of them is what a torsional rigidity resists. Getting them the wrong way round would have made this collection conclude that a knitted loop carries no twist, on the strength of a theorem that says nothing of the kind.
The count that decides how flat
A knitted fabric's demanded flattening is a function of its tightness factor, and a tightness factor is the square root of a count over a loop length. So a coarser yarn at the same loop is flatter — which is a prediction about a spinner's choice that nobody has framed as one.
A fault map is worth most where the grade is worst
A cutter who knows where the faults are can slide the marker or break it, and only one of those is worth anything: sliding a rigid tiling to its best offset recovers two panels of fifty-five, and letting the tiling break recovers twelve — two panels in five more cloth from the same roll. The gain has a maximum in the middle of the range, because there is nothing to recover on a clean bolt and nothing to be done on a ruined one. And the prediction the grading essay made, that a map is worth most on a bolt whose faults are bunched, is false: bunching leaves clear runs for the blind cutter too.
Two layers are warmer than they are thick
Six essays have taken a double cloth apart from the draft's side. None has asked what the reader gets. Divide one cloth's yarn into two layers and the fabric is 41 per cent thicker — √2, which is the account's own law — and about 70 per cent warmer, because dividing the yarn also divides the fibre fraction and the mixture conducts less. The gap widens with every further layer and never closes, and a shaft loom stops at two.
The colour order that hides least
A caption on this account's top essay left a question: whether a warp of long runs against a weft of short ones hides less than either would against itself, and called it a lever nobody uses. Sweeping all sixteen orders against all sixteen says the lever is real and the caption named the wrong variable. Run length has nothing to do with it — the blind count, the separation and the largest confused class all depend on the two orders' colour counts and on nothing else, and what a mixed pair saves is exactly the square of the difference between them.
A second wrong digit is silent only by cancelling the first
One wrong threading digit leaves the cloth exactly as it was 576 times in 252,968, all on three-shaft drafts. The obvious guess about two was that silence would become the rule, since two changed digits can swap two shafts and swapping shafts is the harness's own freedom. Counted over all 1,074,972 pairs, two wrong digits are silent 1.29 per cent of the time — five and a half times as often, on fifteen times as many cloths — and never by adding one silent slip to another. Every silent pair is two audible errors cancelling, and at two errors point paper and lifting plans, which can never be wrong silently by one symbol, are silent almost as often.
The one fibre whose answer is known
A table of measured constants is worth what its worst row is worth, and nobody can tell which row that is. This one has a member whose answer was known before anybody measured it, and the ordering of the other nine turns out to say something about how fibres are made.
A weight fixes the fibre and not the drape
Every plain cotton cloth of 150 grams a square metre contains the same fibre, and the count decides only how it is arranged. Across the counts that can make that weight, thickness rises threefold and cover falls in step, so their product holds still. The bending length does something stranger: at the bound a woven yarn actually sits near, it depends on neither the count nor the weight, only on the fibre.
A cam easer gives its slack too early
The essay before it left the crossing end with fifteen millimetres it could not use at half the shed, and three things it might do with them. All three are decidable. It cannot reach the shuttle, because the same eyes that trapped the kink keep the slack behind the harness — and the margin is negative, so that friction is not a nuisance here but the reason a leno weaves at all. It cannot snarl, because the span is under half this account's own threshold. It sags seventy-two millimetres where the easer gives it, and the repair is a cam cut to the demand rather than to the shed.
No cloth shines under a sky
Every specular figure on this account is drawn at a tolerance of two degrees, which is a stand-in for how wide the source is. Sweeping it says something the account has not: the contrast between a floated weave and a plain one is inversely proportional to the source's angular size, exactly, because a float keeps a crown line as the source narrows and a plain weave has only turns. A satin outshines a plain weave by 177 under the sun's disc, by 22 under a small lamp, and by exactly nothing at sixty degrees.
An eight-end shading is pinned at three everywhere but its centre
At six ends every even shading holds its middle tones to a float of two, and every one sinks to the same depth. The question left was whether eight ends does the same. It cannot even start: at eight ends no shading can hold its second tone to two, a float of three there needs the second mark of every pick exactly opposite the first, and then the third mark cannot undo it. Tones two, three, five and six are pinned at a float of three, only the centre is free, and a family with a free centre does not sink to one depth — it sinks to at least six.
A ridge in the matrix is not a ridge in the cloth
A 2/2 twill's crowns join into a ridge across its matrix and a 2/2 hopsack's are islands, so a thin film on the twill should be continuous from the first gram and on the hopsack a scatter of patches. Laid on the cloth's own surface rather than its matrix, both films are patches — the twill's ridge crosses from one end to the next, and between two ends lies the gap the sett leaves. On a sheeting both join at the same depth, 116 grams into the 186 that flatten the face, and the weave's whole influence is a window of up to 27 grams at the setts where it opens at all.
A calender's best cloth is the one its nip fills
A calender's lustre is a length of crown line times a width of plateau. A closer cloth has more crown line and less room to widen each thread into, and the product was expected to peak at some interior cover that would move with the weave. It does not peak at all on the cap alone — per unit of crown line it falls all the way from the most open cloth. The peak is made by the nip: a nip that flattens by f has one best cloth, the one it exactly fills, at a cover of d over the flattened width, and there the lustre is (f − 1)/f. No yarn, and no weave, moves it.
A drying cloth cannot lift what a sealed tube can
Every rise on this account is an equilibrium in a sealed tube, and a garment is neither sealed nor at equilibrium. Balancing the supply up a strip against the loss from its faces gives a quadratic whose width cancels exactly: in an ordinary room the fine system between the fibres stands at 500 millimetres instead of 6.37 metres, keeping 7.9 per cent of what a tube would give it, while the coarse system loses a third of a per cent. The forty-sixfold advantage becomes 3.7, and in a drying wind it reverses.
What a closed thread cannot choose
A thread whose ends are held has a quantity it cannot change without breaking: the total number of times its material winds about its own axis, plus the number of times that axis winds about itself. The two can trade, and everything a twisted yarn does when it is let go is that trade happening.
The energy has no crimp ratio to give
The account left a gap at its top: a construction whose preferred crimp ratio lies outside the interval its geometry admits sits at a boundary, and boundary states had not been studied. Profiling the whole energy rather than its minimum says there are two regions and a frontier — six of the eight cloths in the table of cloths here fall to an end of their own interval with the weft dead straight, and the two that do not have wells 3.27 and 0.52 per cent deep, against a rigidity known to within a factor of 408.
A band presses where the limb turns
Every compression pressure is quoted as a band's tension over the limb's radius, and a limb has no radius. It has a curvature that changes all the way round, and a band presses each point with its tension times the curvature there. The round-limb number survives exactly — as an average over the band's length — and is the pressure almost nowhere. On a calf with a ridge down its front the ridge takes ten times it and the flat face beside it takes none; on an ankle, two bones and a tendon carry nearly three quarters of the force on under a fifth of the girth.
A stitch takes back what the parallel rule cannot see
Dividing a cloth's yarn into two layers makes it warmer than its thickness, and the essay that found it computed the warmth by the one mixing rule that cannot see a stitch — the one that treats every fibre as though it ran straight through the cloth. That rule gives the largest bonus there is. Yarn in a cloth lies in its plane, and by the rule for fibres lying across the heat's path a double muslin's bonus is 8.4 per cent, not 18.8. A stitch is the one fibre that does run through the cloth, and at half the intersections it takes the whole bonus back.
A room lights a satin at the harmonic mean of its lamps
A satin outshines a plain weave by a factor inversely proportional to the width of the light, which is a clean law for one source and says nothing about a room. A room has a lamp and a window at once. Sum each source's highlight and the average falls out by itself: the room behaves as a single source whose width is the harmonic mean of its sources' widths, weighted by the power each supplies. The harmonic mean is ruled by the narrowest source, so a small lamp carrying a tenth of the light more than doubles the contrast a large window gives.
A blind set hides less the thinner it is spread
Two colours showed that where a cloth's threads match in colour the draft underneath is invisible, and that how many intersections match is not what decides how much is hidden. More colours say what does. A third colour lets the blind count take every value from nought to ten; a fourth lets the blind intersections sit one to a thread. At a fixed count, the catalogue keeps more of its cloths apart the more threads the blind set is spread across — 3,632 surfaces for four scattered blind cells, 2,402 for the same four in a square.
A dip dyes a depth, not a share
A yarn dyed after spinning is a cylinder the dye has to diffuse into through the liquor between its fibres, and the fibres slow it by taking dye out of the liquor as it passes. A twenty-second dip therefore dyes to a depth, some tens of micrometres, and that depth is almost the same in a fine yarn and a coarse one. So the same dip that colours two fifths of a shirting yarn's section colours a fifth of a denim warp's; eight dips deepen the shade eightfold and leave the ring where it was; and a tighter yarn rings more thinly, because packing closes the pores faster than it narrows the yarn.
Where a torsion model stops
A second stiffness was added because an earlier ladder named its absence as the first thing to disbelieve. It settled four things, refuted one trade explanation, and left the question it was built for exactly where it found it.
A knitted disc is flat at one shape of loop
A disc lies flat only if its circumference grows by exactly 2π per unit of radius, and a knitted disc's growth is a count of loops in one direction over a count in the other. So it is flat at one value of the loop's aspect and no other. Knitted sideways in wedges of short rows the growth falls as the loop gets wider; knitted outward in rounds it rises. Four wedges and ten increases every two rounds are each flat at an aspect inside the range plain knit moves through when it is washed — and they cross it in opposite directions.
A wick reaches its ceiling in the time its cloth takes to dry
A drying cloth lifts water to a steady height and no further, and the question left was how long it takes to get there. The answer has no permeability and no surface tension in it. Where gravity is small the front climbs as the ceiling times the root of one minus a decaying exponential, and the exponential's time is the cloth's own pore water divided by the rate its faces lose water — the time the room would take to dry it. In an ordinary room that is half an hour, and the front is nine tenths of the way up in fifty-three minutes.
A knit's weight nearly names its yarn
A woven cloth's weight is one equation in four unknowns, and a hundred and fifty grams can be woven from anything between twenty tex and two hundred. A plain jersey's weight has the loop in it and nothing else to spare, and the loop is bounded by the yarn it is knitted from. Put the two together and the loop cancels: the weight is a constant times the tightness times the root of the count, so at one weight the count is fixed to within half again — and in each relaxed state it is fixed to a different half.
A lamp off the mirror lights a satin only across its floats
Every source in the account of a room was a source the viewer sees mirrored in the cloth. A lamp off to one side lights the cloth too, and which facets it reaches depends on which way it is off. Displaced across a satin's floats it is caught by the float's own curve and adds contrast like any lamp on the mirror; displaced along them by more than twice its own width it reaches only the turns, and the satin comes out a quarter as bright as plain weave.
A sheer's privacy is the error it multiplies
Everything a passer-by sees of a room through a sheer is the room's image plus a veil the street lights, and the veil can be known without going in. So one subtraction and one division ought to read the room's reflectance from the pavement. They do not, and the reason is the curtain's whole purpose: every error in the veil arrives in the answer multiplied by the reading over the image — sixty-four through a white voile by day, three and a half at equal light. The privacy a sheer gives and the precision it denies are one number.
Silence lives in the lifting plan
Two wrong threading digits leave a four-end cloth exactly as it was 1.3 times in a hundred, and the question left was whether a longer repeat makes that rarer or commoner. At eight ends the answer depends on something the question did not name. With a lifting plan of unrelated rows, silence all but vanishes; with a twill's plan — one row slid a pick at a time — nine four-shaft threadings in ten can be silently mis-threaded, and even single errors are silent one time in five hundred. The repeat hardly matters. The plan's symmetry does.
Flattening is free and impossible
The fabric demands a flattening and the yarn has to supply it. At one end of this collection's oldest bracket the deformation costs exactly nothing; at the other it costs thirty-six times the whole bending energy of a stitch. The fabric flattens — which is the fourth everyday observation in one phase to land at the same end.
The width of a bolt is worth what its faults leave it
A fault map lets a cutter move panels along a bolt and across it, and the length was expected to matter far more than the width, because a bolt is fifty metres long and three panels wide. That is true of two kinds of fault and false of the third. Against a fault across the whole width the width is worth exactly nothing; against a scatter of points it is worth between a sixth and two fifths of what the length is; and against a missing end, which runs the whole length, the length is worth nothing and the width is worth everything.
A satin mirrors the top of the sky
A uniform source sixty degrees wide leaves every weave reflecting the same share of its face, and that was read as saying no cloth shines under a sky. A real sky is not uniform. An overcast one is three times as bright overhead as at the horizon, and it stands over a ground darker than itself. Every facet of a cloth mirrors one direction, and a satin's facets mirror the top of the dome while a plain weave's mirror the horizon and the ground — so seen from above, under cloud, an eight-end satin still sends back a third more sky.
The loom hands the crimp to the weft
Bending alone gave the fixed-sett energy nothing to say: six of eight cloths fell to the end of their interval with the weft dead straight. Put the warp's tension in and the answer is not a well but a switch. The crimp changes hands across a factor of two or three in tension, at a few hundredths of a newton — and the loom holds its warp at half a newton, so on the loom every cloth's warp is as straight as its geometry allows.
Glass hides a black net and not a white voile
A window pane in front of a curtain mirrors the street, and a mirror is a veil with no thread in it. It also dims the street's light on the cloth. For a white voile the two nearly cancel, and straight on the dimming wins, so the voile is slightly easier to read through glass than without it. For a black net the mirror is most of what a passer-by sees: its multiplier goes from 2 to 5 head-on and to 25 from along the pavement. The glass makes the net private, not the voile. The angle at which it stops helping does not depend on the time of day, and a polarising filter at Brewster's angle takes the mirror out altogether.
A leno easer should be a light weight
A spring easer gives length when the crossing end pulls, so it cannot give it too early, which was the fault in a cam driven off the shed. The question left was its rate. The answer is that it hardly has one. Behind the harness the easer feels the back span, and two gripping eyes keep that span within fifteen per cent of its resting tension while the kink carries its load. So the spring must hold its span almost constant over a sixty-eight-millimetre stroke: at most 1.1 newtons a metre per end, a dead weight in all but name. At speed the bar's own mass is what limits it, and it falls with the square of the loom's speed: 2.3 grams an end at a hundred picks a minute, 0.6 at two hundred.