You must know in days of unemployment that it is something of a catastrophe if you do not land the first job you apply for Monday morning. For by the time you reach the second place on the list, no matter how fast you go, it is apt to be filled up from the group who were waiting there from 7.30 on, as you had waited at your first hope. The third chance is slimmer still by far, and if you keep on until 10 or 11 it is mostly just plain useless. And if you do not land a job Monday, that whole week is as good as lost. Of course, there is always a chance—the smallest sort of hopeless chance—that something can be found later on in the week. The general happening is that you stake your all on the 7.30 to 8.30 wait Monday morning. Often it is 9 before the firm sees fit to announce it wants no more help, and there you are with fifty-five cents and a key and a safety pin—or less—to do till Monday next. Strange the cruel comfort to be felt from the sight of the countless others hurrying about hopelessly, hopefully, that raw Monday morning. On every block where a firm had advertised were girls scanning their already worn-looking lists, making sure of the address, hastening on. Nor were they deterred by the procession marching away—even if some one called, “No use goin' up there—they don't want no more.” Perhaps, after all, thought each girl to herself, the boss would want _her_. The boss did not. First, early in the morning and full of anticipation I made for the bindery on West Eighteenth Street. That sounded the likeliest of the possibilities. No need to get out the paper to make sure again of the number. It must be where that crowd was on the sidewalk ahead, some thirty girls and as many men and boys. Everyone was pretty cheerful—it was twenty minutes to eight and most of us were young. Rather too many wanted the same job, but there were no worries to speak of. Others might be unlucky—not we. So our little group talked. Bright girls they were, full of giggles and “gee's.” Finally the prettiest and the brightest of the lot peered in through the street doors. “Say, w'at d'ye know? I see a bunch inside! Come on!” In we shoved our way, and there in the dismal basement-like first floor waited as many girls and men as on the sidewalk. “Good night! A fat show those dead ones outside stand!” And we passed the time of day a bit longer. The pretty and smart one was not for such tactics long. “W'at d'ye say we go up to where the firm is and beat the rest of 'em to it!” “You said it!” And we tore up the iron stairs. On the second flight we passed a janitor. “Where's the bindery?” “Eighth floor.” “My Gawd!” And up seven flights we puffed in single file, conversation impossible for lack of wind. The bright one opened the door and our group of nine surged in. There stood as many girls and men as were down on the first floor and out on the sidewalk. “My Gawd!” There was nothing else to say.