"I thought so. There was one of you in the glass factory. He always muffed the easy ones."
"Oh, you work in a glass factory?"
"Winters. Manufacturin' whiskey and beer bottles. Now we're goin' dry, they'll be makin' pop and nursin' bottles, I guess."
"Do you help in the factory?"
"Yes, and in the office. I can shorthand and type a little."
"You must be glad when a summer comes."
"I am. In winter I can't turn around without breakin' something. They dock you for that——"
"And that's why you sing when you can't break anythin'?"
"I suppose so. I like the open. It isn't right to be cooped up."
They were getting along beautifully and Peter was even beginning to forget the weight of his heavy bag. She was a quaint creature and quite as unconscious of him as though he hadn't existed. He was just somebody to talk to. Peter ventured.