"cleaning" is the filthiest job
the trade possesses. It is in bad repute and difficult to secure a woman
to do the unpleasant work.

"You come with me," he said cheerfully; "I'll teach you."

The forelady at Parsons' did not know whether I worked well or not. She
never came to see. The foreman in Marches' taught me himself.

Two high desks, like old-time school desks, rose in the workshop's
centre. Behind one of these I stood, whilst the foreman in front of me
instructed my ignorance. The room was filled with high crates rolled
hither and thither on casters. These crates contained anywhere from
thirty-two to fifty pairs of boots. The cases are moved from operator to
operator as each man selects the shoes to apply to them the especial
branch of his trade. From the crate of boots rolled to my side I took
four boots and placed them on the desk before me. With the heel of one
pressed against my breast, I dipped my forefinger in a glass of hot soap
and water, water which soon became black as ink. I passed my wet, soapy
finger all around the boot's edges, from toe to heel. This loosened, in
the space between the sole and vamp, the sticky dye substance on the
leather and particles so-called "dirt." Then with a bit of wood covered
with Turkish toweling I scraped the shoe between the sole and vamp and
with a third cloth polished and rubbed the boot clean. In an hour's time
I did one-third as well as my companion. I cleaned a case in an hour,
whilst she cleaned three.

When my employer had left me I observed the woman at my side: an untidy,
degraded-looking creature, long past youth. Her hands beggared
description; their covering resembled skin not at all, but a dark-blue
substance, leatherlike, bruised, ingrained, indigo-hued. Her nails
looked as though they had been beaten severely. One of her thumbs was
bandaged.

"I lost one nail; rotted off."

"Horrible! How, pray?"

"That there water: it's poison from the shoe-dye."

Swiftly my hands were changing to a faint likeness of my companion's.

"Don't tell him," she said, "that I told you that. He'll be mad; he'll
think I am discouraging you. But you'll lose your forefinger nail, all
right!" Then she gave a little laugh as she turned her boot around to
polish it.

"Once I tried to clean my hands up. Lord! it's no good! I scrub 'em with
a scrubbin'-brush on Sundays."

"How long have you been at this job?"

"Ten months."

They called her "Bobby"; the men from their m