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One day I decided to consider myself dismissed from Parsons’.  They had taught me all they could, unless I changed my trade, in that shop; I wished to learn a new one in another.  Therefore, one morning I applied at another factory, again one of the largest in Lynn.  The sign read: 

“Cleaner Wanted!”

“Cleaner” sounded easy to learn.  My experience this time was with a foreman instead of a forelady.  The workroom I sought was on the second floor, a room filled with men, all of them standing.  Far down the room’s centre I saw the single figure of a woman at her job.  By her side I was soon to be, and we two the sole women on the second floor.

The foreman was distinctly a personage.  Small, kind, alive, he wore a straw hat and eye-glasses.  He had decided in a moment that my short application for “something to do” was not to be gainsaid.

“Ever worked before?”

This time I had a branch of a trade at my fingers’ ends.

“Yes, sir; presser.”

I was proud of my trade.

I did not even know, as I do now, that “cleaning” is the filthiest job the trade possesses.  It is in bad repute and difficult to secure a woman to do the unpleasant work.

“You come with me,” he said cheerfully; “I’ll teach you.”

The forelady at Parsons’ did not know whether I worked well or not.  She never came to see.  The foreman in Marches’ taught me himself.

Two high desks, like old-time school desks, rose in the workshop’s centre.  Behind one of these I stood, whilst the foreman in front of me instructed my ignorance.  The room was filled with high crates rolled hither and thither on casters.  These crates contained anywhere from thirty-two to fifty pairs of boots.  The cases are moved from operator to operator as each man selects the shoes to apply to them the especial branch of his trade.  From the crate of boots rolled to my side I took four boots and placed them on the desk before me.  With the heel of one pressed against my breast, I dipped my forefinger in a glass of hot soap and water, water which soon became black as ink.  I passed my wet, soapy finger all around the boot’s edges, from toe to heel.  This loosened, in the space between the sole and vamp, the sticky dye substance on the leather and particles so-called “dirt.”  Then with a bit of wood covered with Turkish toweling I scraped the shoe between the sole and vamp and with a third cloth polished and rubbed the boot clean.  In an hour’s time I did one-third as well as my companion.  I cleaned a case in an hour, whilst she cleaned three.

When my employer had left me I observed the woman at my side:  an untidy, degraded-looking creature, long past youth.  Her hands beggared description; their covering resembled skin not at all, but a dark-blue substance, leatherlike, bruised, ingrained, indigo-hued.  Her nails looked as though they had been beaten severely.  One of her thumbs was bandaged.