bottles fly to pieces in my hand. The boy who runs the corking-machine
smashes a glass to fragments.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, my own fingers crimson stained.

"That ain't nothin'," he answers. "Cuts is common; my hands is full of
'em."

The woman directs us; she is fussy and loses her head, the work
accumulates, I am slow, the boy is clumsy. There is a stimulus
unsuspected in working to get a job done. Before this I had worked to
make the time pass. Then no one took account of how much I did; the
factory clock had a weighted pendulum; now ambition outdoes physical
strength. The hours and my purpose are running a race together. But,
hurry as I may, as we do, when twelve blows its signal we have corked
only 210 dozen bottles! This is no more than day-work at seventy cents.
With an ache in every muscle, I redouble my energy after lunch. The girl
with the goggles looks at me blindly and says:

"Ain't it just awful hard work? You can make good money, but you've got
to hustle."

She is a forlorn specimen of humanity, ugly, old, dirty, condemned to
the slow death of the overworked. I am a green hand. I make mistakes; I
have no experience in the fierce sustained effort of the bread-winners.
Over and over I turn to her, over and over she is obliged to correct me.
During the ten hours we work side by side not one murmur of impatience
escapes her. When she sees that I am getting discouraged she calls out
across the deafening din, "That's all right; you can't expect to learn
in a day; just keep on steady."