The instruments turn in my awkward fingers. I spread glue where it should not be: edges designated for its reception remain innocent. All this means double work later. "_Twict the work_!" my teacher remarks. Little by little, however, the simplicity of the manual action, the uniformity, the mechanical movement declare themselves. I glance from time to time at my expert neighbours, compare our work; in an hour I have mastered the method--skill and rapidity can be mine only after many days; but I worked alone, unaided. As raw edges, at first defying my clumsiness, fell to fascinating rounds, as the awl creased the leather into the fluting folds, as the hammer mashed the gummed seam down, I enjoyed the process; it was kindergarten and feminine toil combined, not too hard; but it was only the beginning! Meanwhile my teacher, patient-faced, lightning-fingered, sat close to me, reeking perspiration, tired with the ordeal of instructing a greenhorn. With no sign of exhausted patience, however, she gummed my vamps with the ill-smelling glue. "This glue makes lots of girls sick! In the other shops where I worked they just got sick, one by one, and quit. I stuck it out. The forelady said to me when I left: 'My! I never thought anybody could stand it's long's you have.'" I asked, "What would you rather do than this?" She didn't seem to know. "I don't do this for fun, though! Nor do you--I bet you!" (I didn't--but not quite for her reason.) As I had yet my room to make sure of, I decided to leave early. I told Maggie McGowan I was going home. "Tired already?" There was still an hour to dark. As I explained to her my reasons she looked at my amateur accomplishment spread on the board before us. I had only pressed a case of shoes--three dozen pairs. "I guess I'll have to put it on my card," she soliloquized, "'cause I learned you." "Do--do----" "It's only about seven cents, anyway." "Three hours' work and that's all I've made?"[2] [Footnote 2: An expert presser can do as many as 400 shoes a day. This is rare and maximum.] She regarded me curiously, to see how the amount tallied with my hope of gain and wealth. "Yet you tell me I'm not stupid. How long have you been at it?" [Illustration: "LEARNING" A NEW HAND Miss P., an experienced "gummer" on vamp linings, is a New England girl, and makes $8 or $9 a week. The new hand makes from $2.50 to $3 a week at the same work] "Ten years." "And you make?" "Well, I don't want to discourage you." ... (If Maggie used this expression once she used it a dozen times; it was her pat on the shoulder, her word of cheer before coming ill news.) "... I don't want to discourage you, but it's slow! I make about twelve dollars a week." "Then I will make four!" (Four? Could it be possible I dreamed of such sums at this stage of ignorance!) "_I don't want to discourage you_, but I guess you'd better do housework!"