"Miss High-Spy 'ain't got any love for on-lookers, and we'd better
not stay in here long." Jimmy's voice was cautious, but his eyes
merry, and, glancing in the direction of the sour and snappy person
watching each movement of each worker, I agreed with him that it was
not well to linger. The room was big and bare, its benches filled
with white-faced workers, and the autocrat who presided over it
seemed unconscious of its stifling, steamy heat and sickening smells
of glue and paste. Going out into the hall, Jimmy and I went to a
window, opened it, and gave our lungs a bath.

"What does she do it for? Is she crazy?"

"Not asylum-crazy--mean-crazy." Jimmy's head nodded first
negatively, then with affirmation. "She's come up from the beginning
place, and used to be a fire-eater before she got to be boss of our
bunch, and the men say people like that, people who ain't used to
driving, drive harder than any other kind when they get the chance.
She's a bully to the under ones, but the uppers--" Jimmy's eyes were
lifted to mine and his lips made a whistling sound. "If Mr.
Pritchard kicked her in the face, she'd lick the soles of his shoes
when he was doing it, if she could. She wants to be boss of the room
up-stairs and Mr. Pritchard can put her where he pleases. If he
don't do it, he'd better, the women say, 'count of her knowing more
about him than he knows she knows. I don't know what 'tis, but I
hate her. All of us hate her."

"Why doesn't some one speak to Mr. Johns? Certainly he can't know--"

"Yes 'm, he does. Joe Dickson and Bob Beazley told him once, and the
next week they got a hand-out. High-Spy made Mr. Pritchard do it.