back of them. On one side of the room only are there windows.
The air is heavy with the sweet, stifling smell of printer's ink and
cheap paper. A fine rain of bronze dust sifts itself into the hair and
clothes of the girls at our end of the room, where they are bronzing
coloured advertisements. The work is all done standing; the hours are
from seven until six, with half an hour at noon, and holiday at one
thirty on Saturdays. It is to _feed_ a machine that I am paid three
dollars a week. The expression is admirably chosen. The machine's iron
jaws yawn for food; they devour all I give, and when by chance I am slow
they snap hungrily at my hand and would crush my fingers did I not
snatch them away, feeling the first cold clutch. It is nervous work.
Each leaf to be printed must be handled twice; 5,000 circulars or
bill-heads mean 10,000 gestures for the printer, and this is an
afternoon's work.

Into the square marked out for it by steel guards the paper must be
slipped with the right hand, while the machine is open; with the left
hand the printed paper must be pulled out and a second fitted in its
place before the machine closes again. What a master to serve is this
noisy iron mechanism animated by steam! It gives not a moment's respite
to the worker, whose thoughts must never wander from her task. The
girls are pale. Their complexions without exception are bad.

We are bossed by men. My boss is kind, and, seeing that I am ambitious,
he comes now and then and prints a few hundred bill-heads for me. There
is some complaining _sotto voce_ of the other boss, who, it appears, is
a hard taskmaster. Both are very young, both chew tobacco and
expectorate long, brown, wet lines of tobacco juice on to the floor.
While waiting for new type I get into conversation with the boss of
ill-repute. He has an honest, serious face; his eyes are evidently more
accustomed to judging than to trusting his fellow beings. He is
communicative.

"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 ba