About then my locker key falls through a hole in my waist pocket and on to the floor and out of sight. In the end it takes a broom handle poked about diligently under the bottom shelf of our table to make a recovery. Before the key appear chocolates of many shapes and sizes, long reposing in oblivion under the weighty table. The thrifty Spanish woman behind me gathers up all the unsquashed ones and packs them. “Mus' be lots of chocolates under these 'ere tables, eh?” she notes wisely and with knit brows. As if to say that, were she boss, she'd poke with a broom under each and every bottom shelf and fill many a box.
At least my feet get a moment's rest while I am down on my hands and knees among the debris from under the tables.
By five o'clock Tessie thinks she'll throw up her job then and there. “Ach! Ach! My feet!” she moans. I secretly plan to kill the next person who gives me a box of chocolate candy.
Surely it is almost 6.
Five minutes after 5.
The bell has forgotten to ring. It must be 7.
Quarter after 5.
Now for sure and certain it is midnight.
Half-past 5.
My earrings begin to hurt. You can take off earrings. But FEET—