When ordered, by the assistant aisle manager, to go with Mrs. Johnson to lunch, my salesbook showed that I had sold three times as much as Mrs. McDavit and considerably more than Mrs. Johnson. “You’ll make a good saleslady,” Mrs. Johnson encouraged. “Maybe they’ll make a permanent of you.” “What am I now?” “You’re an extra. You’ll get paid every night.” “How much?” I asked. “Dollar a day.” Stopping in the middle of the floor I stared at the two women. “A dollar a day! Did you know you were to be paid only a dollar a day?” I demanded of Mrs. McDavit. “’Tain’t much,” she apologized, “but my daughter thinks it better than takin’ in wash.” “My son has charge of a stationary engine and Mondays and Saturdays are his long shifts,” Mrs. Johnson explained. “I can work without his knowing it. He’s studying for the ministry and me earning two dollars a week makes it easier for him.” In the lunch-room maintained by the firm for its employees, from a long list of what appeared to be low-priced dishes I ordered vegetable soup, a baked apple, and bread and butter. The enticingly misnamed soup proved to be hot water thickened with flour and colored with tomato catsup. After investigating the lumps of uncooked flour at the bottom of the bowl I put it aside and devoted myself to the lumpy little apple and the bread and butter. This last consisted of two thin slices of white bread between which was the thinnest coating of butter I had, at that time, ever seen. Later I learned that it was put on with a brush dipped in melted margarine. Shortly after three o’clock the aisle manager ordered me to report to the superintendent. That dignitary pompously ordered me to report the following morning and take charge of the counter at which Mrs. McDavit and I were stationed. “We’ve decided to keep you on regular,” he informed me. “How much am I to be paid?” I asked. “Six a week,” was his complacent reply. “No wonder your advertisement is always in the papers.” He came down in his chair with a bang. “We have girls who have worked here months, years,” he retorted angrily. “They are content on six dollars a week, glad to get it. You are only a greenhorn.” “But not green enough to work for six dollars a week,” and turning I left his office. So ended my dream of a highly paid responsible position. Employees not being allowed to use the elevator during busy hours, I was forced to tramp up three flights of stairs. On reaching the counter I swung out the silly little seat attached to one of the table-legs and sat down. “Get up. Get up,” Mrs. Johnson urged in a whisper as she hurried toward me. “Won’t they even let you sit down?” I demanded, struggling to my aching feet. “They won’t say nothing to you but if the aisle manager sees you he’ll put you on their black list.” I looked the two women over. Mrs. Johnson’s white face was haggard until it looked pinched. Mrs. McDavit had lost much of her ruddy color and dark circles had formed under her eyes.