While she was teaching me the factory paid her at the rate of ten cents
an hour.

A touch of the machine's pedal set the needle to stitching like mad. A
second touch in the opposite direction brought it to an abrupt
standstill. For the five hours of my first afternoon session there was
not an instant's harmony between what I did and what I intended to do. I
sewed frantically into the middle of shirts. I watched my needle,
impotent as it flew up and down, and when by chance I made a straight
seam I brought it to so sudden a stop that the thread raveled back
before my weary eyes. When my back and fingers ached so that I could no
longer bend over the work, I watched my comrades with amazement. The
machine was not a wild animal in their hands, but an instrument that
responded with niceness to their guidance. Above the incessant roar and
burring din they called gaily to each other, gossiping, chatting,
telling stories. What did they talk about? Everything, except domestic
cares. The management of an interior, housekeeping, cooking were things
I never once heard mentioned. What were the favourite topics, those
returned to most frequently and with surest interest? Dress and men. Two
girls in the seaming-room had got into a quarrel that day over a packer,
a fine looking, broad-shouldered fellow who had touched the hearts of
both and awakened in each an emotion she claimed the right to defend.
The quarrel began lightly with an exchange of unpleasant comment; it
soon took the proportions of a dispute which could not give itself the
desired vent in words alone. The boss was called in. He made no attempt
to control what lay beyond his power, but applying factory legislation
to the case, he ordered the two Amazons to "register out" until the
squabble was settled, as the factory did not propose to pay its hands
for the time spent in fights. So the two girls "rang out" past the
timekeeper and took an hour in the open air, hand to hand, fist to fist,