Baffled in her attempts to reform Butterfly Center, having fallen down on the job of replacing Art by Utility, she went, undaunted and indomitable, on her way.
Hoboken.
Work in a pickle foundry. Cucumbers, small onions, green tomatoes, cauliflower, tiny string beans, red peppers, mustard, vinegar, cauldrons, boiling, seething fumes, spicy mists, pungent odors, bottles, jars, labels, chow-chow, picalilli, smarting tongue, burning palate, inflamed oesophagus, disordered stomach, enteritis.
That was the way things came to Warble. And she made good. Her position was that of a pickle taster.
At first, only of the little gherkins, then promoted through medium cucumbers, to the glory of full-fledged Dills.
A conscientious taster—faithful, diligent, she reached the amazing speed of forty pickles a minute, and all done well.
Of course it told on her. Also, her heartaches told on her.
Lonely. Homesick for Bill, for Ptomaine Haul, for the gallery of Petticoats.