He was a good workman himself, quick and deft, and it had always been a point of pride with him that no man should do any of his work for him or outwork him.

As a result, he concentrated with a similar singleness of purpose, greedily snapping up the hints and suggestions thrown out by his working mate.

He "rubbed out" collars and cuffs, rubbing the starch out from between the double thicknesses of linen so that there would be no blisters when it came to the ironing, and doing it at a pace that elicited Joe's praise.
There was never an interval when something was not at hand to be done.
Joe waited for nothing, waited on nothing, and went on the jump from task to task.

They starched two hundred white shirts, with a single gathering movement seizing a shirt so that the wristbands, neckband, yoke, and bosom protruded beyond the circling right hand.

At the same moment the left hand held up the body of the shirt so that it would not enter the starch, and at the moment the right hand dipped into the starch--starch so hot that, in order to wring it out, their hands had to thrust, and thrust continually, into a bucket of cold water.