The widow Marcus, who spoke the language from an association with Italian immigrants since childhood, added her comments from time to time. She was a gray-haired, kindly soul, bearing no enmity toward the man to whom she had yielded her husband’s life and her own.
“A man’s no good in the mills after he’s fifty,” she said. “You see, Miss, it’s all piece-work, and a man has to be most terribly spry and active. The strain is something awful, day after day, in the noise and bad air, and having to keep your eyes fixed on your work for ten hours at a stretch; and he wears out fast. Then he has to take a job where he can’t make so much. And when he’s about fifty he’s no good for the mills any more.”
“And then what?” asked Carmen.
“Well, if he hasn’t any children, he goes to the poor-house. But, if he has, then they take care of him.”
“Then mill workers must have large families?”
“Yes, they’ve got to, Miss. The little ones must work in the mills, too. These mills here take them on when they are only twelve, or even younger. Tony has worked there, and he is only ten. It’s against the law; but Mr. Ames gets around the law some way.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Marcus, how do you live?” the girl asked.
“I? Oh, I manage. The company paid me some money two years ago, and I haven’t spent all of it yet. Besides, I work round a bit. I’m pretty spry with one arm.”
“But––you do not pay rent for your home?”