inch of the factory floor must be scrubbed in the next four hours. The
whistle on Saturday blows an hour earlier. Any girl who has not finished
her work when the day is done, so that she can leave things in perfect
order, is kept overtime, for which she is paid at the rate of six or
seven cents an hour. A pail of hot water, a dirty rag and a
scrubbing-brush are thrust into my hands. I touch them gingerly. I get a
broom and for some time make sweeping a necessity, but the forewoman is
watching me. I am afraid of her. There is no escape. I begin to scrub.
My hands go into the brown, slimy water and come out brown and slimy. I
slop the soap-suds around and move on to a fresh place. It appears there
are a right and a wrong way of scrubbing. The forewoman is at my side.

"Have you ever scrubbed before?" she asks sharply. This is humiliating.

"Yes," I answer; "I have scrubbed ... oilcloth."

The forewoman knows how to do everything. She drops down on her knees
and, with her strong arms and short-thumbed, brutal hands, she shows me
how to scrub.

The grumbling is general. There is but one opinion among the girls: it
is not right that they should be made to do this work. They all echo the
same resentment, but their complaints are made in whispers; not one has
the courage to openly rebel. What, I wonder to myself, do the men do on
scrubbing day. I try to picture one of them on his hands and knees in a
sea of brown mud. It is impossible. The next time I go for a supply of
soft soap in a department where the men are working I take a look at the
masculine interpretation of house cleaning. One man is playing a hose on
the floor and the rest are rubbing the boards down with long-handled
brooms and rubber mops.