Part 11 (1/2)

”Do you like your job?” he asks.

”Yes, first rate.”

”They don't pay enough. I give notice last week and got a raise. I guess I'll stay on here until about August.”

”Then where are you going?”

”Going home,” he answers. ”I've been away from home for seven years. I run away when I was thirteen and I've been knocking around ever since, takin' care of myself, makin' a livin' one way or another. My folks lives in California. I've been from coast to coast--and I tell you I'll be mighty glad to get back.”

”Ever been sick?”

”Yes, twice. It's no fun. No matter how much licking a boy gets he ought never to leave home. The first year or so you don't mind it so much, but when you've been among strangers two years, three years, all alone, sick or well, you begin to feel you must get back to your own folks.”

”Are you saving up?” I ask.

He nods his head, not free to speak for tobacco juice.

”I'll be able to leave here in August,” he explains, when he has finished spitting, ”for Omaha. In three months I can save up enough to get on as far as Salt Lake, and in another three months I can move on to San Francisco. I tell you,” he adds, returning to his work, ”a person ought never to leave home.” He had nine months of work and privation before reaching the goal toward which he had been yearning for years.

With what patience he appears possessed compared to our fretfulness at the fast express trains, which seem to crawl when they carry us full speed homeward toward those we love! Nine months, two hundred and seventy days, ten-hour working days, to wait. He was manly. He had the spirit of adventure; his experience was wide and his knowledge of men extended; he had managed to take care of himself in one way or another for seven years, the most trying and decisive in a boy's life. He had not gone to the bad, evidently, and to his credit he was homeward bound.

His history was something out of the ordinary; yet beyond the circle where he worked and was considered a hard taskmaster he was a nonent.i.ty--a star in the milky way, a star whose faint rays, without individual brilliancy, added to the general l.u.s.ter.

The first day I had a touch of pride in getting easily ahead of the new girl who started in when I did. From my machine I could see only the back of her head; it was shaking disapproval at every stroke she made and had to make over again. She had a ma.s.s of untidy hair and a slouchy skirt that slipped out from her belt in the back. If not actually stupid, she was slow, and the foreman and the girl who took turns teaching her exchanged glances, meaning that they were exhausting their patience and would readily give up the job. I was pleased at being included in these glances, and had a miserable moment of vanity at lunch time when the old girls, the habitues, came after me to eat with them.

The girl with the untidy hair and the long skirt sat quite by her self.

Without unfolding her newspaper bundle, she took bites of things from it, as though she were a little ashamed of her lunch. My moment of vanity had pa.s.sed. I went over to her, not knowing whether her appearance meant a slipshod nature or extreme poverty. As we were both new girls, there was no indiscretion in my direct question:

”Like your job?”

I could not understand what she answered, so I continued: ”Ever worked before?”

She opened her hands and held them out to me. In the palm of one there was a long scar that ran from wrist to forefinger. Two nails had been worn off below the quick and were cracked through the middle. The whole was gloved in an iron callous, streaked with black.

”Does that look like work?” was her response. It was almost impossible to hear what she said. Without a palate, she forced the words from her mouth in a strange monotone. She was one of nature's monstrous failures.

Her coa.r.s.e, opaque skin covered a low forehead and broad, boneless nose; her teeth were crumbling with disease, and into her full lower lip some sharp tool had driven a double scar. She kept her hand over her mouth when she talked, and except for this movement of self-consciousness her whole att.i.tude was one of resignation and humility. Her eyes in their dismal surroundings lay like clear pools in a swamp's midst reflecting blue sky.

”What was you doing to get your hands like that?” I asked.

”Tipping shoe-laces. I had to quit, 'cause they cut the pay down. I could do twenty-two gross in a day, working until eight o'clock, and I didn't care how hard I worked so long as I got good pay--$9 a week. But the employer'd been a workman himself, and they're the worst kind. He cut me down to $4 a week, so I quit.”

”Do you live home?”

”Yes. I give all I make to my mother, and she gives me my clothes and board. Almost anywhere I can make $7 a week, and I feel when I earn that much like I was doing right. But it's hard to work and make nothing. I'm slow to learn,” she smiled at me, covering her mouth with her hand, ”but I'll get on to it by and by and go as fast as any one; only I'm not very strong.”

”What's the matter with you?”

”Heart disease for one thing, and then I'm so nervous. It's kind of hard to have to work when you're not able. To-day I can hardly stand, my head's aching so. They make the poor work for just as little as they can, don't they? It's not the work I mind, but if I can't give in my seven a week at home I get to worrying.”

Now and then as she talked in her inarticulate pitiful voice the tears added l.u.s.ter to her eyes as her emotions welled up within her.

The machines began to roar and vibrate again. The noon recess was over.

She went back to her job. Her broad, heavy hands began once more to serve a company on whose moderate remuneration she depended for her daily bread. Her silhouette against the window where she stood was no longer an object for my vain eyes to look upon with a sense of superiority. I could hear the melancholy intonation of her voice, p.r.o.nouncing words of courage over her disfigured underlip. She was one of nature's failures--one of G.o.d's triumphs.