"Say, are you sure those girls'll come? You can't always count on us, you know." He laughs at this. "Have you ever run a Gordon press?" "No, sir; but I'm awful handy." "Where have you been working?" "At J.'s in Lake Street." "What did you make?" "A dollar a day." "Well, you come in to-morrow about eleven and I'll tell you then whether I can give you anything to do." "Can't you be sure now?" Truly disappointed, my voice expresses the eagerness I feel. "Well," the fat man says indulgently, "you come in to-morrow morning at eight and I'll give you a job." The following day I begin my last and by far my most trying apprenticeship. The noise of a single press is deafening. In the room where I work there are ten presses on my row, eight back of us and four printing machines back of them. On one side of the room only are there windows. The air is heavy with the sweet, stifling smell of printer's ink and cheap paper. A fine rain of bronze dust sifts itself into the hair and clothes of the girls at our end of the room, where they are bronzing coloured advertisements. The work is all done standing; the hours are from seven until six, with half an hour at noon, and holiday at one thirty on Saturdays. It is to _feed_ a machine that I am paid three dollars a week. The expression is admirably chosen. The machine's iron jaws yawn for food; they devour all I give, and when by chance I am slow they snap hungrily at my hand and would crush my fingers did I not snatch them away, feeling the first cold clutch. It is nervous work. Each leaf to be printed must be handled twice; 5,000 circulars or bill-heads mean 10,000 gestures for the printer, and this is an afternoon's work. Into the square marked out for it by steel guards the paper must be slipped with the right hand, while the machine is open; with the left hand the printed paper must be pulled out and a second fitted in its place before the machine closes again. What a master to serve is this noisy iron mechanism animated by steam! It gives not a moment's respite to the worker, whose thoughts must never wander from her task. The girls are pale. Their complexions without exception are bad. We are bossed by men. My boss is kind, and, seeing that I am ambitious, he comes now and then and prints a few hundred bill-heads for me. There is some complaining _sotto voce_ of the other boss, who, it appears, is a hard taskmaster. Both are very young, both chew tobacco and expectorate long, brown, wet lines of tobacco juice on to the floor. While waiting for new type I get into conversation with the boss of ill-repute. He has an honest, serious face; his eyes are evidently more accustomed to judging than to trusting his fellow beings. He is communicative. "Do you like your job?" he asks. "Yes, first rate." "They don't pay enough. I give notice last week and got a raise. I guess I'll stay on here until about August." "Then where are you going?"