“But think of the pay he’d get after he’d learned weaving, Millie,” retorted my uncle; “It would make up for the time he’d spent in learning. He’d get treble what he can by taking up sweeping, in the long run!”
“Into the mill he goes,” concluded my aunt, firmly, “and he goes to work at something that will pay money right off, I don’t care a snap what it is!”
“That’s no reason!”
“Reason,” she snapped, “you speaking of reason, and here we are head over ears in debt. It’s time this fellow was earning his keep.”
Next neighbor to us was a family named Thomas. My aunt exchanged library books with Sarah Ann Thomas. Uncle went to the Workingmen’s Club with “Matty” Thomas, and I was the boon companion of “Zippy” Thomas. When Zippy learned from me that I had secured my mill-certificate, his joy was unbounded. He gave me a broad wink, and whispered, “You had to fake it, didn’t you, Al?” I nodded.
“They did mine, too! I won’t tell, you know. I wish you’d come and work in the same room with me. I’m sweepin’, and get three plunks a week.” Then he winked again, and said, “There’s some nice girls sweepin’ with me, too. Won’t it be bully if you can strike it with me. They need another sweeper. One got fired this morning for boring a hole in the belt-box to get electricity on a copper wire to kill cockroaches. You could get his job if you wanted and tried.” I told him to wait for me till I ran and told my uncle about it.
Uncle came out with me, and met Zippy.
“Where does the second hand live, lad?” he asked.
“He’s Canadian, his name’s Jim Coultier,” announced Zippy. “He lives at the other end of the tenements.”
We found Jim at home. No sooner was the object of our visit made known than he nodded his head, and said, “Tol’ him to coom wid Sippy’ morrer mornin’,” whereat my uncle was so pleased that he invited the Frenchman to go out with him to Riley’s saloon, to celebrate my entrance into the mill.