The long summer day waned, but not the heat, and under the raw flare of electric light the work went on.
By nine o'clock the first women began to go home.

The mountain of fancy starch had been demolished--all save the few remnants, here and there, on the boards, where the ironers still labored.
Saxon finished ahead of Mary, at whose board she paused on the way out.
"Saturday night an' another week gone," Mary said mournfully, her young cheeks pallid and hollowed, her black eyes blue-shadowed and tired.
"What d'you think you've made, Saxon ?" "Twelve and a quarter," was the answer, just touched with pride "And I'd a-made more if it wasn't for that fake bunch of starchers." "My! I got to pass it to you," Mary congratulated.

"You're a sure fierce hustler--just eat it up.

Me--I've only ten an' a half, an' for a hard week...

See you on the nine-forty.