All the evening and far into the night, when she was not singing the latest ragtime she was crowing like a hen. She called it exercising her upper register. Having spent one year as a student in a conservatory of music I knew from experience the only thing to do was to let her find out conditions for herself.
The following day by writing steadily from eight to six I managed to address fifteen hundred envelopes. The companionship of the six women who shared the long table with me was diverting. Before the day was half gone each of the five had confided to all within reach of her voice her personal history and reason for working. During the lunch-hour the sixth woman continued to write, nibbling from time to time at an apple and what appeared to be a slice of dry bread. Finally she inquired if I were married.
“You’re lucky,” she congratulated me. “If I could make sure my four children would be took care of I’d put myself to sleep and never wake up.”
“How about your husband?” was my horrified rejoinder.
“He’s gone,” she replied with a quavering little chuckle. “When our fifth baby came he left.” After a pause she added: “Maybe he wouldn’t have gone if he’d a-knowd it was goin’ to die so soon.” Another pause. Then wistfully: “Maybe he would—never no countin’ on a man.”
The next day at eleven the little manager informed us that having finished all the envelopes he would have no further need of our services until time to send out their spring catalogues. Having received a post-card from the department store telling me to report ready for work at eight-thirty the following Monday morning, this abrupt ending of my first job caused me no regret.
Deciding to devote the afternoon to looking for rooms, I hurried back to the Y. W. C. A. and approached the woman in charge of the Rooming Bureau. When she learned that my limit was two dollars and a half a week she shook her head. She had not had a room as low as that in at least two years. So late in the season and two rooms on the same floor? Impossible! When I reminded her of newspapers and magazine articles advising working women on the economic division of their wages her face crinkled into a smile.
“Those people find out the wage of the average working girl—some don’t even take that trouble—then they sit at their desks and divide it up for her. Sometimes they make real touching stories. I’ve often wondered how much they are paid.” She looked me over. “Perhaps you can tell me? You are a writer.”
The attack was so unexpected that I actually stuttered. When I asked why she had made such a guess she replied indifferently:
“Only a professional social investigator or a writer could be so ignorant and at the same time so cock-sure. You are not a social investigator. At least I never saw one whose shoes were so clean this late in the week.”