after man is sent
on out, to the growing discouragement, no doubt, of those remaining in
line. At last, around a little corner in the stairs, the first girl is
summoned. The line moves up. A queer-looking man with pop eyes asks a
few questions. The girl goes on upstairs. I am fourth in line--a steam
heater next and the actions of my insides make the temperature seem
120 at least. My turn.

"How much experience you've had?"

"None."

"What you work in last?"

"Didn't work in a factory--been doin' housework--takin' care of kids."

"Well, I start you packing. You get thirteen dollars this week,
fourteen dollars next--you understand?"

He writes something on a little card and I go upstairs with it. There
I am asked my name, age (just did away with ten years while I was at
it). Married or single? Goodness! hadn't thought of that. In the end a
lie there would make less conversation. Single. Nationality--Eyetalian?
No, American. It all has to be written on a card. At that point my eye
lights on a sign which reads: "Hours for girls 8 A.M.-6 P.M. Saturdays
8-12." Whew! My number is 1075. The time clock works so. My key hangs
on this hook; then after I ring up, it hangs here. (That was an
entrancing detail I had not anticipated--made me wish we had to ring up
at noon as well as morning and night.) Locker key 222. A man takes me
in the elevator to the third floor and there hands me over to Ida. The
locker works thus and so. Didn't I have no apron? No--but to-morrow I'd
bring it, and a cap. Sure.

Three piles of boxes and trucks and barrels and Ida opens a great door
like a safe, and there we are in the packing room--from the steam
heater downstairs to the North Pole. Cold? Nothing ever was so cold.
Ten long zinc-topped tables, a girl or two on each side. At the right,
windows which let in no air and little light, nor could you see out at
all. On the left, shelves piled high with wooden boxes. Mostly all a
body can think of is how cold, cold, cold it is. Something happens to
chocolates otherwise.

That first day it is half-pound boxes. My side of the table holds some
sixty at a time. First the date gets stamped on the bottom, then
partitions are fitted in. "Here's your sample. Under the table you'll
find the candies, or else ask Fannie, there. You take the paper cups
so, in your left hand, give them a snap so, lick your fingers now and
then, slip a cup off, stick the candy in with your right hand." And
Ida is off.

The