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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
"You take hold like a good fellow. If you
keep up the pace, youll be on thirty dollars only one month. The second
month youll be gettin your forty. But dont tell me you never ironed
before. I know better."
"Never ironed a rag in my life, honestly, until to-day," Martin
protested.
He was surprised at his weariness when he act into his room, forgetful of
the fact that he had been on his feet and working without let up for
fourteen hours. He set the alarm clock at six, and measured back five
hours to one oclock. He could read until then. Slipping off his shoes,
to ease his swollen feet, he sat down at the table with his books. He
opened Fiske, where he had left off to read. But he found trouble began
to read it through a second time. Then he awoke, in pain from his
stiffened muscles and chilled by the mountain wind that had begun to blow
in through the window. He looked at the clock. It marked two. He had
been asleep four hours. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into bed,
where he was asleep the moment after his head touched the pillow.
Tuesday was a day of similar unremitting toil. The speed with which Joe
worked won Martins admiration. Joe was a dozen of demons for work. He
was keyed up to concert pitch, and there was never a moment in the long
day when he was not fighting for moments. He concentrated himself upon
his work and upon how to save time, pointing out to Martin where he did
in five motions what could be done in three, or in three motions what
could be done in two. "Elimination of waste motion," Martin phrased it
as he watched and patterned after. He was a good workman himself, quick
and deft, and it had always been a point of pride with him that no man
should do any of his work for him or outwork him. As a result, he
concentrated with a similar singleness of purpose, greedily snapping up
the hints and suggestions thrown out by his working mate. He "rubbed
out" collars and cuffs, rubbing the starch out from between the double
thicknesses of linen so that there would be no blisters when it came to
the ironing, and doing it at a pace that elicited Joes praise.
There was never an interval when something was not at hand to be done.
Joe waited for nothing, waited on nothing, and went on the jump from task
to task. They starched two hundred white shirts, with a single gathering
movement seizing a shirt so that the wristbands, neckband, yoke, and
bosom protruded beyond the circling right hand. At the same moment the
left hand held up the body of the shirt so that it would not enter the
starch, and at the moment the right hand dipped into the starch--starch
so hot that, in order to wring it out, their hands had to thrust, and
thrust continually, into a bucket of cold water. And that night they
worked till half-past ten, dipping "fancy starch"--all the frilled and
airy, delicate wear of ladies.
"Me for the tropics and no clothes," Martin laughed.
"And me out of a job," Joe answered seriously. "I dont know nothin but
laundrying."
"And you know it well."
"I ought to. Began in the Contra Costa in Oakland when I was eleven,
shakin out for the mangle. That was eighteen years ago, an Ive never
done a tap of anything else. But this job is the fiercest I ever had.
Ought to be one more man on it at least. We work to-morrow night. Always
run the mangle Wednesday nights--collars an cuffs."
Martin set his alarm, drew up to the table, and opened Fiske. He did not
finish the first paragraph. The lines blurred and ran together and his
head nodded. He walked up and down, batting his head savagely with his
fists, but he could not conquer the numbness of sleep. He propped the
book before him, and propped his eyelids with his fingers, and fell
asleep with his eyes wide open. Then he surrendered, and, scarcely
conscious of what he did, got off his clothes and into bed. He slept
seven hours of heavy, animal-like Martin Eden page 68 Martin Eden page 70 |