"At last came my turn. He tossed them all over. 'It's poor work,' he said. 'They're not finished properly. You can't be paid for botching. There's three dollars, and that's too much.' 'The work is the same it's always been. There's no botching,' I said; but he held out the three dollars. 'No,' I said, 'If you won't pay fair I'll go to the Woman's Protective Union and see what they'll do.' His face was black as thunder. 'Take your money,' he says, holding out the rest, 'but you may sing for more work from this establishment,' and he flung the money on the floor. That didn't trouble me, because I knew I could get work just below, and I did that same day; twenty cloaks, ten to be made at sixty cents apiece, and ten at fifty-five cents. I had Angie here to help, and when they were done I carried them down. This man was a Jew, but there's small difference. If the Jew knew best how to cheat in the beginning, the Christian caught up with him long ago. 'The buttons are all on wrong,' he said. 'I told you to set them an inch further back. We'll have to alter them every one and charge you for the time.' 'I can take oath they are on as I was told to put them on,' I said, 'but if they must be changed I'll change them myself and save the money.' "It took long talking to make him agree, but at last he said I could come next morning but one, and he'd let me alter them as a great favor. I did come down, but he said they couldn't wait and had made the change, and he charged me six dollars for what he said was my mistake. It was no use to complain. He could swear I had done the job wrong, and so I went home with $5.50 instead of eleven dollars for nearly a fortnight's work. I changed the place, and so far nobody has docked me; but doing my best, and Angie working as steady as I do, we can't make more than twenty cents on a jacket, and it's a short season. When it's over I do coats, but it's less pay than jackets, and there's living and Maggie's medicine and the doctor, though he won't take anything. I'd feel better if he did, but he won't. Angie used to be in a factory, but there's the baby now, and she doesn't know what way to turn but this. See, he's here by Maggie." The sick girl lifted a corner of the quilt, and something stirred,--a baby of seven or eight months whose great eyes looked out from a face weazened and sharpened, deep experience seeming graven in every line. "He's a wise one," the sick girl said. "He's found it's no use to cry, and he likes to be by me because it's warm. But he frightens me sometimes, for he just lies and looks at me as if he knew a million things and could tell them every one. He's always hungry, and maybe that makes him wiser. I'm sure I could tell some things that people don't know."