Chapter XVI

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　The alarm-clock went off, jerking Martin out of sleep with asuddenness that would have given headache to one with less splendidconstitution. Though he slept soundly, he awoke instantly, like acat, and he awoke eagerly, glad that the five hours ofunconsciousness were gone. He hated the oblivion of sleep. Therewas too much to do, too much of life to live. He grudged everymoment of life sleep robbed him of, and before the clock had ceasedits clattering he was head and ears in the washbasin and thrillingto the cold bite of the water.But he did not follow his regular programme. There was nounfinished story waiting his hand, no new story demandingarticulation. He had studied late, and it was nearly time forbreakfast. He tried to read a chapter in Fiske, but his brain wasrestless and he closed the book. To-day witnessed the beginning ofthe new battle, wherein for some time there would be no writing.He was aware of a sadness akin to that with which one leaves homeand family. He looked at the manuscripts in the corner. That wasit. He was going away from them, his pitiful, dishonored childrenthat were welcome nowhere. He went over and began to rummage amongthem, reading snatches here and there, his favorite portions. "ThePot" he honored with reading aloud, as he did "Adventure." "Joy,"his latest-born, completed the day before and tossed into thecorner for lack of stamps, won his keenest approbation."I can't understand," he murmured. "Or maybe it's the editors whocan't understand. There's nothing wrong with that. They publishworse every month. Everything they publish is worse - nearlyeverything, anyway."After breakfast he put the type-writer in its case and carried itdown into Oakland."I owe a month on it," he told the clerk in the store. "But youtell the manager I'm going to work and that I'll be in in a monthor so and straighten up."He crossed on the ferry to San Francisco and made his way to anemployment office. "Any kind of work, no trade," he told theagent; and was interrupted by a new-comer, dressed ratherfoppishly, as some workingmen dress who have instincts for finerthings. The agent shook his head despondently."Nothin' doin' eh?" said the other. "Well, I got to get somebodyto-day."He turned and stared at Martin, and Martin, staring back, noted thepuffed and discolored face, handsome and weak, and knew that he hadbeen making a night of it."Lookin' for a job?" the other queried. "What can you do?""Hard labor, sailorizing, run a type-writer, no shorthand, can siton a horse, willing to do anything and tackle anything," was theanswer.The other nodded."Sounds good to me. My name's Dawson, Joe Dawson, an' I'm tryin'to scare up a laundryman.""Too much for me." Martin caught an amusing glimpse of himselfironing fluffy white things that women wear. But he had taken aliking to the other, and he added: "I might do the plain washing.I learned that much at sea." Joe Dawson thought visibly for amoment."Look here, let's get together an' frame it up. Willin' tolisten?"Martin nodded."This is a small laundry, up country, belongs to Shelly HotSprings, - hotel, you know. Two men do the work, boss andassistant. I'm the boss. You don't work for me, but you workunder me. Think you'd be willin' to learn?"Martin paused to think. The prospect was alluring. A few monthsof it, and he would have time to himself for study. He could workhard and study hard."Good grub an' a room to yourself," Joe said.That settled it. A room to himself where he could burn themidnight oil unmolested."But work like hell," the other added.Martin caressed his swelling shoulder-muscles significantly. "Thatcame from hard work.""Then let's get to it." Joe held his hand to his head for amoment. "Gee, but it's a stem-winder. Can hardly see. I wentdown the line last night - everything - everything. Here's theframe-up. The wages for two is a hundred and board. I've bendrawin' down sixty, the second man forty. But he knew the biz.You're green. If I break you in, I'll be doing plenty of your workat first. Suppose you begin at thirty, an' work up to the forty.I'll play fair. Just as soon as you can do your share you get theforty.""I'll go you," Martin announced, stretching out his hand, which theother shook. "Any advance? - for rail-road ticket and extras?""I blew it in," was Joe's sad answer, with another reach at hisaching head. "All I got is a return ticket.""And I'm broke - when I pay my board.""Jump it," Joe advised."Can't. Owe it to my sister."Joe whistled a long, perplexed whistle, and racked his brains tolittle purpose."I've got the price of the drinks," he said desperately. "Come on,an' mebbe we'll cook up something."Martin declined."Water-wagon?"This time Martin nodded, and Joe lamented, "Wish I was.""But I somehow just can't," he said in extenuation. "After I'veben workin' like hell all week I just got to booze up. If Ididn't, I'd cut my throat or burn up the premises. But I'm gladyou're on the wagon. Stay with it."Martin knew of the enormous gulf between him and this man - thegulf the books had made; but he found no difficulty in crossingback over that gulf. He had lived all his life in the working-class world, and the camaraderie of labor was second nature withhim. He solved the difficulty of transportation that was too muchfor the other's aching head. He would send his trunk up to ShellyHot Springs on Joe's ticket. As for himself, there was his wheel.It was seventy miles, and he could ride it on Sunday and be readyfor work Monday morning. In the meantime he would go home and packup. There was no one to say good-by to. Ruth and her whole familywere spending the long summer in the Sierras, at Lake Tahoe.He arrived at Shelly Hot Springs, tired and dusty, on Sunday night.Joe greeted him exuberantly. With a wet towel bound about hisaching brow, he had been at work all day."Part of last week's washin' mounted up, me bein' away to get you,"he explained. "Your box arrived all right. It's in your room.But it's a hell of a thing to call a trunk. An' what's in it?Gold bricks?"Joe sat on the bed while Martin unpacked. The box was a packing-case for breakfast food, and Mr. Higginbotham had charged him halfa dollar for it. Two rope handles, nailed on by Martin, hadtechnically transformed it into a trunk eligible for the baggage-car. Joe watched, with bulging eyes, a few shirts and severalchanges of underclothes come out of the box, followed by books, andmore books."Books clean to the bottom?" he asked.Martin nodded, and went on arranging the books on a kitchen tablewhich served in the room in place of a wash-stand."Gee!" Joe exploded, then waited in silence for the deduction toarise in his brain. At last it came."Say, you don't care for the girls - much?" he queried."No," was the answer. "I used to chase a lot before I tackled thebooks. But since then there's no time.""And there won't be any time here. All you can do is work an'sleep."Martin thought of his five hours' sleep a night, and smiled. Theroom was situated over the laundry and was in the same buildingwith the engine that pumped water, made electricity, and ran thelaundry machinery. The engineer, who occupied the adjoining room,dropped in to meet the new hand and helped Martin rig up anelectric bulb, on an extension wire, so that it travelled along astretched cord from over the table to the bed.The next morning, at quarter-past six, Martin was routed out for aquarter-to-seven breakfast. There happened to be a bath-tub forthe servants in the laundry building, and he electrified Joe bytaking a cold bath."Gee, but you're a hummer!" Joe announced, as they sat down tobreakfast in a corner of the hotel kitchen.With them was the engineer, the gardener, and the assistantgardener, and two or three men from the stable. They ate hurriedlyand gloomily, with but little conversation, and as Martin ate andlistened he realized how far he had travelled from their status.Their small mental caliber was depressing to him, and he wasanxious to get away from them. So he bolted his breakfast, asickly, sloppy affair, as rapidly as they, and heaved a sigh ofrelief when he passed out through the kitchen door.It was a perfectly appointed, small steam laundry, wherein the mostmodern machinery did everything that was possible for machinery todo. Martin, after a few instructions, sorted the great heaps ofsoiled clothes, while Joe started the masher and made up freshsupplies of soft-soap, compounded of biting chemicals thatcompelled him to swathe his mouth and nostrils and eyes in bath-towels till he resembled a mummy. Finished the sorting, Martinlent a hand in wringing the clothes. This was done by dumping theminto a spinning receptacle that went at a rate of a few thousandrevolutions a minute, tearing the matter from the clothes bycentrifugal force. Then Martin began to alternate between thedryer and the wringer, between times "shaking out" socks andstockings. By the afternoon, one feeding and one, stacking up,they were running socks and stockings through the mangle while theirons were heating. Then it was hot irons and underclothes tillsix o'clock, at which time Joe shook his head dubiously."Way behind," he said. "Got to work after supper." And aftersupper they worked until ten o'clock, under the blazing electriclights, until the last piece of under-clothing was ironed andfolded away in the distributing room. It was a hot Californianight, and though the windows were thrown wide, the room, with itsred-hot ironing-stove, was a furnace. Martin and Joe, down toundershirts, bare armed, sweated and panted for air."Like trimming cargo in the tropics," Martin said, when they wentupstairs."You'll do," Joe answered. "You take hold like a good fellow. Ifyou keep up the pace, you'll be on thirty dollars only one month.The second month you'll be gettin' your forty. But don't tell meyou never ironed before. I know better.""Never ironed a rag in my life, honestly, until to-day," Martinprotested.He was surprised at his weariness when he act into his room,forgetful of the fact that he had been on his feet and workingwithout let up for fourteen hours. He set the alarm clock at six,and measured back five hours to one o'clock. He could read untilthen. Slipping off his shoes, to ease his swollen feet, he satdown at the table with his books. He opened Fiske, where he hadleft off to read. But he found trouble began to read it through asecond time. Then he awoke, in pain from his stiffened muscles andchilled by the mountain wind that had begun to blow in through thewindow. He looked at the clock. It marked two. He had beenasleep four hours. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into bed,where he was asleep the moment after his head touched the pillow.Tuesday was a day of similar unremitting toil. The speed withwhich Joe worked won Martin's admiration. Joe was a dozen ofdemons for work. He was keyed up to concert pitch, and there wasnever a moment in the long day when he was not fighting formoments. He concentrated himself upon his work and upon how tosave time, pointing out to Martin where he did in five motions whatcould be done in three, or in three motions what could be done intwo. "Elimination of waste motion," Martin phrased it as hewatched and patterned after. He was a good workman himself, quickand deft, and it had always been a point of pride with him that noman should do any of his work for him or outwork him. As a result,he concentrated with a similar singleness of purpose, greedilysnapping up the hints and suggestions thrown out by his workingmate. He "rubbed out' collars and cuffs, rubbing the starch outfrom between the double thicknesses of linen so that there would beno blisters when it came to the ironing, and doing it at a pacethat elicited Joe's praise.There was never an interval when something was not at hand to bedone. Joe waited for nothing, waited on nothing, and went on thejump from task to task. They starched two hundred white shirts,with a single gathering movement seizing a shirt so that thewristbands, neckband, yoke, and bosom protruded beyond the circlingright hand. At the same moment the left hand held up the body ofthe shirt so that it would not enter the starch, and at the momentthe right hand dipped into the starch - starch so hot that, inorder to wring it out, their hands had to thrust, and thrustcontinually, into a bucket of cold water. And that night theyworked till half-past ten, dipping "fancy starch" - all thefrilled and airy, delicate wear of ladies."Me for the tropics and no clothes," Martin laughed."And me out of a job," Joe answered seriously. "I don't knownothin' but laundrying.""And you know it well.""I ought to. Began in the Contra Costa in Oakland when I waseleven, shakin' out for the mangle. That was eighteen years ago,an' I've never done a tap of anything else. But this job is thefiercest I ever had. Ought to be one more man on it at least. Wework to-morrow night. Always run the mangle Wednesday nights -collars an' cuffs."Martin set his alarm, drew up to the table, and opened Fiske. Hedid not finish the first paragraph. The lines blurred and rantogether and his head nodded. He walked up and down, batting hishead savagely with his fists, but he could not conquer the numbnessof sleep. He propped the book before him, and propped his eyelidswith his fingers, and fell asleep with his eyes wide open. Then hesurrendered, and, scarcely conscious of what he did, got off hisclothes and into bed. He slept seven hours of heavy, animal-likesleep, and awoke by the alarm, feeling that he had not had enough."Doin' much readin'?" Joe asked.Martin shook his head."Never mind. We got to run the mangle to-night, but Thursday we'llknock off at six. That'll give you a chance."Martin washed woollens that day, by hand, in a large barrel, withstrong soft-soap, by means of a hub from a wagon wheel, mounted ona plunger-pole that was attached to a spring-pole overhead."My invention," Joe said proudly. "Beats a washboard an' yourknuckles, and, besides, it saves at least fifteen minutes in theweek, an' fifteen minutes ain't to be sneezed at in this shebang."Running the collars and cuffs through the mangle was also Joe'sidea. That night, while they toiled on under the electric lights,he explained it."Something no laundry ever does, except this one. An' I got to doit if I'm goin' to get done Saturday afternoon at three o'clock.But I know how, an' that's the difference. Got to have right heat,right pressure, and run 'em through three times. Look at that!"He held a cuff aloft. "Couldn't do it better by hand or on atiler."Thursday, Joe was in a rage. A bundle of extra "fancy starch" hadcome in."I'm goin' to quit," he announced. "I won't stand for it. I'mgoin' to quit it cold. What's the good of me workin' like a slaveall week, a-savin' minutes, an' them a-comin' an' ringin' in fancy-starch extras on me? This is a free country, an' I'm to tell thatfat Dutchman what I think of him. An' I won't tell 'm in French.Plain United States is good enough for me. Him a-ringin' in fancystarch extras!""We got to work to-night," he said the next moment, reversing hisjudgment and surrendering to fate.And Martin did no reading that night. He had seen no daily paperall week, and, strangely to him, felt no desire to see one. He wasnot interested in the news. He was too tired and jaded to beinterested in anything, though he planned to leave Saturdayafternoon, if they finished at three, and ride on his wheel toOakland. It was seventy miles, and the same distance back onSunday afternoon would leave him anything but rested for the secondweek's work. It would have been easier to go on the train, but theround trip was two dollars and a half, and he was intent on savingmoney.