noon."

Such a state of affairs is indeed worth following up....

Monday morning he came around breezily--he really was a cordial,
kindly soul--and said; "Well, dearie, how are you this morning?"

I went on pinning.

"Good as anybody can be on twelve dollars a week."

"_Ach_, forget it, forget it! Always money, money! Whether a person
gets ten cents or three hundred dollars--it's not the money that
counts"--his hands went up in the air--"it's the _service_!"

Yet employers tell labor managers they must not sentimentalize.

A bit later he came back. "I tell you what I'll do. You stay late
every night this week and work Saturday afternoon like I told you you
should, and I'll pay you for it!"

To such extremes a sense of justice can carry one! (Actually, he had
expected that extra work of me gratis!)

During the week I figured out that in his own heart that boss had
figured out a moral equivalent for a living wage. There was nothing he
would not do for me. Did he but come in my general direction, I was
given a helping hand. He joked with me continually. The hammer and
nails were always busy. I was not only "dearie," I was "sweetheart."
But fourteen dollars a week--that was another story.

Ada was full of compassion and suggested various arguments I should
use next week on the boss. It was awful what he paid me, Ada declared.
She too would talk to him.

The second week I got closer to the girls. Or, more truthfully put,
they got closer to me. At the other factories I had asked most of the
questions and answered fewer. Here I could hardly get a question in
edgewise for the flood which was let loose on me. I explained in each
factory that I lived with a widow who brought me from California to
look after her children. I did some work for her evenings and Saturday
afternoon and Sunday, to pay for my room and board. Not only was I
asked every conceivable question about myself, but at the dress
factory I had to answer uncountable questions about the lady I lived
with--her "gentlemen friends," her clothes, her expenses. It was like
pulling teeth for me to get any information out of the girls.

In such a matter as reading, for example. Every girl I asked was fond
of reading. What kind of books? Good books. Yes, but the names. I got
_We Two_ out of Sarah, and Jean was reading Ibsen's _Doll's House_. It
was a swell book, a play. After hours one night she told me the story.
Together with Ada's concern over my grammar it