I followed the Bishop into a small room, ten by twelve, in a rear tenement. And there we found a little old German woman—sixty-four years old, the Bishop said. She was surprised at seeing me, but she nodded a pleasant greeting and went on sewing on the pair of men’s trousers in her lap. Beside her, on the floor, was a pile of trousers. The Bishop discovered there was neither coal nor kindling, and went out to buy some.
I took up a pair of trousers and examined her work.
“Six cents, lady,” she said, nodding her head gently while she went on stitching. She stitched slowly, but never did she cease from stitching. She seemed mastered by the verb “to stitch.”
“For all that work?” I asked. “Is that what they pay? How long does it take you?”
“Yes,” she answered, “that is what they pay. Six cents for finishing. Two hours’ sewing on each pair.”
“But the boss doesn’t know that,” she added quickly, betraying