"Well," said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we do
need a stitcher. We like experienced help, though. We've hardly
got time to break people in." He paused and looked away out of
the window. "We might, though, put you at finishing," he
concluded reflectively.

"How much do you pay a week?" ventured Carrie, emboldened by a
certain softness in the man's manner and his simplicity of
address.

"Three and a half," he answered.

"Oh," she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed
her thoughts to die without expression.

"We're not exactly in need of anybody," he went on vaguely,
looking her over as one would a package. "You can come on Monday
morning, though," he added, "and I'll put you to work."

"Thank you," said Carrie weakly.

"If you come, bring an apron," he added.

He walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never so
much as inquiring her name.

While the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the
price paid per week operated very much as a blow to Carrie's
fancy, the fact that work of any kind was offered after so rude a