who picture a French-heeled, fur-coated, dolled-up
creature as the "typical factory girl" are far wide of the mark. The
one characteristic which so far does seem pretty universal is that one
and all, no matter what the age or looks, are perfectly willing to
tell you everything they know on short acquaintance. At first I felt a
hesitancy at asking questions about their personal lives, yet I so
much wanted to know what they did and thought, what they hoped and
dreamed about. It was early apparent that sooner or later everything
would come out with scant encouragement, and no amount of questioning
ever is taken amiss. They in turn ask me questions, and I lie until I
hate myself.

The plump Jewess was the first interviewed. When she heard the pay she
departed. The elevator bride and I were taken together, and together
we agreed to everything--wages thirteen dollars a week, "with one
dollar a week bonus" (the bonus, as was later discovered, had numerous
strings to it. I never did get any). Work began at 7.45, half hour for
lunch, ended at 5. The bride asked if the work was dangerous. "That's
up to you. Goin' upstairs is dangerous if you don't watch where you
put your feet. Eh?" We wanted to start right in--I had my apron under
my arm--but to-morrow would be time. I got quite imploring about
beginning on that day. No use.

The bride and I departed with passes to get by with the next morning.
That was the last I saw of the bride--or any of that group, except one
little frozen thing without a hat. She worked three days, and used to
pull my apron every time she went by and grin.

The factory was 'way over on the East Side. It meant gettin' up in the
dark and three Subways--West Side, the Shuttle, East Side which could
be borne amicably in the morning, but after eight and three-quarter
hours of foot-press work, going home with that 5-6 rush--that mob who
shoved and elbowed and pushed and jammed--was difficult to bear with
Christian spirit. Except that it really is funny. What idea of human
nature must a Subway guard between the hours of 5 and 6 be possessed
of?

At noon I used to open my lunch anxiously, expecting to see nothing
but a doughy mass of crumpled rye bread and jam. Several times on the
Subway the apple got shoved into my ribs over a period where it seemed
as if either the apple or the ribs would have to give in. But by noon
my hunger was such that any state of anything edible was as nectar and
ambrosia.

I am