on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under
the overhead California sun. But there was no swooning in that
superheated room. The cool guests on the verandas needed clean linen.

The sweat poured from Martin. He drank enormous quantities of water, but
so great was the heat of the day and of his exertions, that the water
sluiced through the interstices of his flesh and out at all his pores.
Always, at sea, except at rare intervals, the work he performed had given
him ample opportunity to commune with himself. The master of the ship
had been lord of Martin's time; but here the manager of the hotel was
lord of Martin's thoughts as well. He had no thoughts save for the nerve-
racking, body-destroying toil. Outside of that it was impossible to
think. He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not even exist, for
his driven soul had no time to remember her. It was only when he crawled
to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning, that she asserted
herself to him in fleeting memories.

"This is hell, ain't it?" Joe remarked once.

Martin nodded, but felt a rasp of irritation. The statement had been
obvious and unnecessary. They did not talk while they worked.
Conversation threw them out of their stride, as it did this time,
compelling Martin to miss a stroke of his iron and to make two extra
motions before he caught his stride again.

On Friday morning the washer ran. Twice a week they had to put through
hotel linen,--the sheets, pillow-slips, spreads, table-cloths, and
napkins. This finished, they buckled down to "fancy starch." It was
slow work, fastidious and delicate, and Martin did not learn it so
readily. Besides, he could not take chances. Mistakes were disastrous.

"See that," Joe said, holding up a filmy corset-cover that he could have
crumpled from view in one hand. "Scorch that an' it's twenty dollars out
of your wages."

So Martin did not scorch that, and eased down on his muscular tension,
though nervous tension rose higher than ever, and he listened
sympathetically to the other's blasphemies as he toiled and suffered over
the beautiful things that women wear when they do not have to do their
own laundrying. "Fancy starch" was Martin's nightmare, and it was Joe's,
too. It was "fancy starch" that robbed them of their hard-won minutes.
They toiled at it all day. At seven in the evening they broke off to run
the hotel linen through the mangle. At ten o'clock, while the