This is not the only factory of the kind. Scores of them grow and thrive under the kind protection of organised charity, to the glory of God and the humane century we live in.
"Dear Sir—You employ a number of men and women in your factory. Labour is very floating nowadays and we know the difficulty employers have to secure the right sort of help. When in need of help, why not ring us up? We always have a number of men and women who would not only be willing to accept any work at all, but who would feel extremely thankful to the one giving them a chance.
"When you get help from us you know you get the right kind. In addition to that, you assist us in our work of redeeming the poor.
"Respectfully yours,
"————,
"Manager of Employment Bureau."P. S.—Right now we have some excellent help for your line."
This is a copy of a circular letter sent by the employment bureau of an organised charity to the manufacturers. Just think of this fact. One of these little sweatshop owners receiving such a letter when Samuel Gordon, who was getting six dollars a week, takes heart and demands a raise in his wages. Read that letter twice and carefully and see what it means. The employer is actually committing a good deed when he fires one of these men getting seven dollars or eight dollars a week and takes on one sent by the charities. Think of the P. S. "Right now we have a number of excellent help for your line." Tempting! is it not? "And be sure the men we send you are not going to make any trouble—an hour or so more every day and a dollar or so less every week does not stand in the way of the one willing to work."—This over the phone.
MY LAST WEEK IN THE WAITING ROOM
Monday.
When the door is opened more than a hundred people stream in. They have all been waiting outside, some sitting on the stairs, others walking to and fro. Of course, every passer-by notices them and knows who they are, "Applicants for charity."
I have heard that remark many a time when passing by. Fearing I might be taken for one of them I have decided always to wear a flower in the lapel of my coat. They will know that no man who applies for charity wears flowers. I also whistle and sing when I ascend the stairs. The other people, the investigators and office workers don't seem to take precautions in this respect. They take it for granted that no one will think this of them.
Mrs. B., the investigator, calls me aside and tells me of the wonderful play she has seen last night. She is stage struck and is even dreaming of her lost career. Meanwhile, the people, the applicants, crowd the room. I know that several of them are there to see Mrs. B. and I want to cut our conversation short, but she has buttonholed me and pours out her whole soul. Other investigators arrive and each one goes to her desk to finish up a report. Some of them want to see the manager and report personally on matters of importance. When I got through with Mrs. B. the waiting room is overcrowded. More than fifty women and men are walking around the room, pacing up and down the floor. There are not enough chairs. A young woman sits in a corner, in the darkest spot. She has a black shawl over her head and has drawn it so far over the face that only her eyes are seen. She is ashamed. She does not want to be seen by the others. I would like to know who it is!—would like to see her face—yet every time I pass her she draws the shawl more over her face—what beautiful, lustrous eyes! Where have I seen them? Where? She is in mourning.