"Of course it's a hard world," said Matson with a wave of his cigar. "But did I make it?"
"No," admitted Susan, as his eyes demanded a reply.
"Sure not," said he. "And how's anybody to get up in it? Is there any other way but by kickin' and stampin', eh?"
"None that I see," conceded Susan reluctantly.
"None that is," declared he. "Them that says there's other ways either lies or don't know nothin' about the practical game. Well, then!" Matson puffed triumphantly at the cigar. "Such bein' the case—and as long as the crowd down below's got to be kicked in the face by them that's on the way up, why shouldn't I do the kickin'—which is goin' to be done anyhow—instead of gettin' kicked? Ain't that sense?"
"Yes," admitted Susan. She sighed. "Yes," she repeated.
"Well—toughen up. Meanwhile, I'll raise you, to spur the others on. I'll give you four a week." And he cut short her thanks with an "Oh, don't mention it. I'm only doin' what's square—what helps me as well as you. I want to encourage you. You don't belong down among them cattle. Toughen up, Lorny. A girl with a bank account gets the pick of the beaux." And he nodded a dismissal.
Matson, and his hands, bosses and workers, brutal, brutalizing each other more and more as they acted and reacted upon each other. Where would it end?
She was in dire need of underclothes. Her undershirts were full of holes from the rubbing of her cheap, rough corset; her drawers and stockings were patched in several places—in fact, she could not have worn the stockings had not her skirt now been well below her shoetops. Also, her shoes, in spite of the money she had spent upon them, were about to burst round the edges of the soles. But she would not longer accept from the Brashears what she regarded as charity.
"You more than pay your share, what with the work you do," protested Mrs. Brashear. "I'll not refuse the extra dollar because I've simply got to take it. But I don't want to pertend."