'Don't you get rather tired of that work?' asked Gladys, looking with extreme compassion on the little seamstress, who was again hard at work.
'Tired! Oh ay. We maun tire an' begin again,' she answered dully. 'It's sair on the fingers.'
She paused a moment to stretch out one of her scraggy hands, which was worn and thin at the fingertips, and pricked with the sharp points of many needles.
'It's dreadful; the stuff looks so hard. What do you make?'
'Men's canvas jackets, number five, thirteenpence the dizen,' quoted the little seamstress mechanically, 'an' find yer ain threed.'
'What does that mean?' asked Gladys.
'I get a penny each for them, an' a penny ower.'
'For making these great things?'
'Oh, I dinna mak' them a'. The seams are run up wi' the machine afore I get them. I pit in the sleeves, the neckbands, an' mak' the buttonholes. There's mair wark at them than ye wad think.'
'Is the money not very little?'