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Thursday
,
Joe
was
in
a
rage
.
A
bundle
of
extra
"
fancy
starch
"
had
come
in
.
"
I
’
m
goin
’
to
quit
,
"
he
announced
.
"
I
won
’
t
stand
for
it
.
I
’
m
goin
’
to
quit
it
cold
.
What
’
s
the
good
of
me
workin
’
like
a
slave
all
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
that
fat
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
fancy
starch
extras
!
"
"
We
got
to
work
to
-
night
,
"
he
said
the
next
moment
,
reversing
his
judgment
and
surrendering
to
fate
.
And
Martin
did
no
reading
that
night
.
He
had
seen
no
daily
paper
all
week
,
and
,
strangely
to
him
,
felt
no
desire
to
see
one
.
He
was
not
interested
in
the
news
.
He
was
too
tired
and
jaded
to
be
interested
in
anything
,
though
he
planned
to
leave
Saturday
afternoon
,
if
they
finished
at
three
,
and
ride
on
his
wheel
to
Oakland
.
It
was
seventy
miles
,
and
the
same
distance
back
on
Sunday
afternoon
would
leave
him
anything
but
rested
for
the
second
week
’
s
work
.
It
would
have
been
easier
to
go
on
the
train
,
but
the
round
trip
was
two
dollars
and
a
half
,
and
he
was
intent
on
saving
money
.
Martin
learned
to
do
many
things
.
In
the
course
of
the
first
week
,
in
one
afternoon
,
he
and
Joe
accounted
for
the
two
hundred
white
shirts
.
Joe
ran
the
tiler
,
a
machine
wherein
a
hot
iron
was
hooked
on
a
steel
string
which
furnished
the
pressure
.
By
this
means
he
ironed
the
yoke
,
wristbands
,
and
neckband
,
setting
the
latter
at
right
angles
to
the
shirt
,
and
put
the
glossy
finish
on
the
bosom
.
As
fast
as
he
finished
them
,
he
flung
the
shirts
on
a
rack
between
him
and
Martin
,
who
caught
them
up
and
"
backed
"
them
.
This
task
consisted
of
ironing
all
the
unstarched
portions
of
the
shirts
.
It
was
exhausting
work
,
carried
on
,
hour
after
hour
,
at
top
speed
.
Out
on
the
broad
verandas
of
the
hotel
,
men
and
women
,
in
cool
white
,
sipped
iced
drinks
and
kept
their
circulation
down
.
But
in
the
laundry
the
air
was
sizzling
.
The
huge
stove
roared
red
hot
and
white
hot
,
while
the
irons
,
moving
over
the
damp
cloth
,
sent
up
clouds
of
steam
.
The
heat
of
these
irons
was
different
from
that
used
by
housewives
.
An
iron
that
stood
the
ordinary
test
of
a
wet
finger
was
too
cold
for
Joe
and
Martin
,
and
such
test
was
useless
.
They
went
wholly
by
holding
the
irons
close
to
their
cheeks
,
gauging
the
heat
by
some
secret
mental
process
that
Martin
admired
but
could
not
understand
.
When
the
fresh
irons
proved
too
hot
,
they
hooked
them
on
iron
rods
and
dipped
them
into
cold
water
.
This
again
required
a
precise
and
subtle
judgment
.
A
fraction
of
a
second
too
long
in
the
water
and
the
fine
and
silken
edge
of
the
proper
heat
was
lost
,
and
Martin
found
time
to
marvel
at
the
accuracy
he
developed
—
an
automatic
accuracy
,
founded
upon
criteria
that
were
machine
-
like
and
unerring
.
But
there
was
little
time
in
which
to
marvel
.
All
Martin
’
s
consciousness
was
concentrated
in
the
work
.
Ceaselessly
active
,
head
and
hand
,
an
intelligent
machine
,
all
that
constituted
him
a
man
was
devoted
to
furnishing
that
intelligence
.
There
was
no
room
in
his
brain
for
the
universe
and
its
mighty
problems
.
All
the
broad
and
spacious
corridors
of
his
mind
were
closed
and
hermetically
sealed
.
The
echoing
chamber
of
his
soul
was
a
narrow
room
,
a
conning
tower
,
whence
were
directed
his
arm
and
shoulder
muscles
,
his
ten
nimble
fingers
,
and
the
swift
-
moving
iron
along
its
steaming
path
in
broad
,
sweeping
strokes
,
just
so
many
strokes
and
no
more
,
just
so
far
with
each
stroke
and
not
a
fraction
of
an
inch
farther
,
rushing
along
interminable
sleeves
,
sides
,
backs
,
and
tails
,
and
tossing
the
finished
shirts
,
without
rumpling
,
upon
the
receiving
frame
.
And
even
as
his
hurrying
soul
tossed
,
it
was
reaching
for
another
shirt
.
This
went
on
,
hour
after
hour
,
while
outside
all
the
world
swooned
under
the
overhead
California
sun
.
But
there
was
no
swooning
in
that
superheated
room
.
The
cool
guests
on
the
verandas
needed
clean
linen
.
The
sweat
poured
from
Martin
.
He
drank
enormous
quantities
of
water
,
but
so
great
was
the
heat
of
the
day
and
of
his
exertions
,
that
the
water
sluiced
through
the
interstices
of
his
flesh
and
out
at
all
his
pores
.
Always
,
at
sea
,
except
at
rare
intervals
,
the
work
he
performed
had
given
him
ample
opportunity
to
commune
with
himself
.
The
master
of
the
ship
had
been
lord
of
Martin
’
s
time
;
but
here
the
manager
of
the
hotel
was
lord
of
Martin
’
s
thoughts
as
well
.
He
had
no
thoughts
save
for
the
nerve
-
racking
,
body
-
destroying
toil
.
Outside
of
that
it
was
impossible
to
think
.
He
did
not
know
that
he
loved
Ruth
.
She
did
not
even
exist
,
for
his
driven
soul
had
no
time
to
remember
her
.
It
was
only
when
he
crawled
to
bed
at
night
,
or
to
breakfast
in
the
morning
,
that
she
asserted
herself
to
him
in
fleeting
memories
.
