'Sometimes it's like I think so; but how's the use, my Net? Here's rough, an' here's rough too,' touching his chest. 'On smooth floors, such as I couldn't work, if we could get there. How's the use o' bein' tired? We've got to keep steady at summut. It's best to be content, like Nobby there; cender's as good a bed as the king's got.'
'Well, if you were tired, you're going to rest now, so I wish you were.'
'What's that mean?'
'You've got through here, that's all,' cried the girl, with a smothered sob.
He set down his pot of coffee and his pail: 'Who told ye so?' he demanded.
'Margery Eames.'
Catching the girl's hand, the old man half dragged her through the opening into a yard devoted to coal storage. Picking their way through the spotted mire, they entered a shed where trip hammers were pounding in showers of sparks, stepped over a great revolving shaft, and came to a stairway; up, up, to the fifth floor, where the finishing rooms were.
Faint daylight was straggling through the narrow windows, and most of the lamps were out, those that were burning being very sickly, as if they did it under protest. A number of women were employed here, because much of the work was merely automatic, and just now men were scarce and women would work cheaper. The women were coarse and rough, rather the scum of the city—perhaps some might have fallen; but the place was noisome and grimy, with a sickening smell of oil everywhere, repulsive enough to be fit for any workers.
The stoker and his daughter walked to the farther end, and came to where a little group of women were sitting round a bench; one of the group tipped a wink to the rest.
'How's coal an' fires now, Adam?' she said.