I was barely turned fifteen, and working long hours in a cannery.

Month in and month out, the shortest day I ever worked was ten hours.

When to ten hours of actual work at a machine is added the noon hour; the walking to work and walking home from work; the getting up in the morning, dressing, and eating; the eating at night, undressing, and going to bed, there remains no more than the nine hours out of the twenty-four required by a healthy youngster for sleep.

Out of those nine hours, after I was in bed and ere my eyes drowsed shut, I managed to steal a little time for reading.
But many a night I did not knock off work until midnight.

On occasion I worked eighteen and twenty hours on a stretch.