The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by HerselfRichardson, Dorothy
History
The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by Herself
Richardson, Dorothy
Women -- Employment -- New York (State) -- New York -- History -- Sources
I made at once for the cloak-room. When I emerged, a moment later, it
was to find the narrow passage obstructed by one of the big soiled-linen
trucks, over which "J. P." bent industriously, as if he hadn't another
thought in the world beyond the sorting of table-cloths and napkins.
Suddenly he lifted up his lank frame, and seeing one of his workpeople
making her escape, he called out:
"It's not six o'clock yet!"
"I don't care if it isn't; I am going home," I replied promptly.
"What's the matter?" he asked in a loud voice, and then, as he drew
near, added in an undertone:
"You read my note?"
"Yes," I replied.
"S'pose you kind of wonder at me doing it?" he went on, moving with me
toward the staircase.
"No; I guessed right away," I answered.
We had now reached the top of the stairs leading to the street door, and
were out of ear-shot of the busy workroom. The curious faces and craning
necks were lost to us through an interposing veil of steam. The foreman
grasped my extended hand in a limp, hasty clasp as I began to move down
the steps.
"You guessed part, but not all," he whispered, turning away.
I dragged myself to the end of the block and turned into Lexington
Avenue just as the six-o'clock whistles began to blow. So much I
remember very distinctly, but after that all is an indistinct blur of
clanging street-cars, of jostling crowds. I do not know whether I had
lost my senses from the physical agony I was enduring, though still able
to perform the mechanical process of walking, or whether it was a case
of somnambulism; but I know that I walked on, all unconscious of where I
was going, or of my own identity, until I came in collision with some
one, and heard a feminine voice beg my pardon. Then a little cry, and
two arms were thrown about me, and I looked up into the smiling face of
Minnie Plympton--Minnie Plympton as large as life and unspeakably
stunning in a fresh shirt-waist and sailor-hat. She was smiling at me
like a princess issuing from her enchantment in a rose-bush; and lest
she should vanish as suddenly as she had appeared, I clutched wildly at
her arm, trembling and sobbing at this delicious awakening from the
horrible nightmare that had been my existence for so many days.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account