"Oh, cheese it," said Mag after one of these sallies, "You all orter to behave more before these kids."
"They don't know what we are talkin' about," said a red-haired girl.
"You bet I do," said Nance, with disgust, "but you all give me a sick headache."
When the foreman made his rounds, figures that had begun to droop were galvanized into fresh effort. At Mag's bench he paused.
"How are the fillies making it?" he asked, with a familiar hand on the shoulder of each new girl. Nance's companion dropped her eyes with a simpering smile, but Nance jerked away indignantly.
The foreman looked at the back of the shining head and frowned.
"You'll have to push up the stroke," he said. "Can't you see you lose time by changing your position so often? What makes you fidget so?"
Nance set her teeth resolutely and held her tongue. But her Irish instinct always suffered from restraint and by the time the noon whistle blew, she was in a state of sullen resentment. The thought of her beloved Miss Stanley and what she would think of these surroundings brought a lump into her throat.
"Come on over here," called Mag from a group of girls at the open window. "Don't you mind what Bean says. He's sore on any girl that won't eat outen his dirty hand. You 're as smart again as that other kid. I can tell right off if a girl's got gumption, an' if she's on the straight.
"Chuck that Sunday-school dope," laughed a pretty, red-haired girl named Gert. "You git her in wrong with Bean, an' I wouldn't give a nickel fer her chance."