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"Well, young lady,"
observed the old gentleman, looking at her somewhat kindly, "what is it
you wish?"
"I am, that is, do you--I
mean, do you need any help?" she stammered.
"Not just at present,"
he answered smiling. "Not
just at present. Come in some
time next week. Occasionally we
need some one."
She received the answer in
silence and backed awkwardly out. The
pleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her.
She had expected that it would be more difficult, that something cold
and harsh would be said--she knew not what.
That she had not been put to shame and made to feel her unfortunate
position, seemed remarkable.
Somewhat encouraged, she ventured
into another large structure. It was a clothing company, and more people
were in evidence-- well-dressed men of forty and more, surrounded by brass
railings.
An office boy approached her.
"Who is it you wish to
see?" he asked.
"I want to see the
manager," she said. He ran away and spoke to one of a group of three
men who were conferring together. One
of these came towards her.
"Well?" he said coldly.
The greeting drove all courage from her at once.
"Do you need any help?" she stammered.
"No," he replied
abruptly, and turned upon his heel.
She went foolishly out, the
office boy deferentially swinging the door for her, and gladly sank into the
obscuring crowd. It was a
severe setback to her recently pleased mental state.
Now she walked quite aimlessly
for a time, turning here and there, seeing one great company after another,
but finding no courage to prosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and
with it hunger. She hunted out
an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed to find that the
prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse.
A bowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly
eaten, she went out again. It
restored her strength somewhat and made her moderately bold to pursue the
search.
In walking a few blocks to fix
upon some probable place, she again encountered the firm of Storm and King,
and this time managed to get in. Some
gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice of her. She was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor.
When the limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was
beckoned to by a man at one of the many desks within the near-by railing.
"Who is it you wish to
see?" he required.
"Why, any one, if you
please," she answered. "I
am looking for something to do."
"Oh, you want to see Mr.
McManus," he returned. "Sit
down," and he pointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall.
He went on leisurely writing, until after a time a short, stout
gentleman came in from the street.
"Mr. McManus," called
the man at the desk, "this young woman wants to see you."
The short gentleman turned about
towards Carrie, and she arose and came forward.
"What can I do for you,
miss?" he inquired, surveying her curiously.
"I want to know if I can get
a position," she inquired.
"As what?" he asked.
"Not as anything in
particular," she faltered.
"Have you ever had any
experience in the wholesale dry goods business?" he questioned.
"No, sir," she replied.
"Are you a stenographer or
typewriter?"
"No, sir." "Well,
we haven't anything here," he said.
"We employ only experienced help."
She began to step backward toward
the door, when something about her plaintive face attracted him.
"Have you ever worked at
anything before?" he inquired.
"No, sir," she said.
"Well, now, it's hardly
possible that you would get anything to do in a wholesale house of this
kind. Have you tried the
department stores?"
She acknowledged that she had
not.
"Well, if I were you,"
he said, looking at her rather genially, "I would try the department
stores. They often need young
women as clerks."
"Thank you," she said,
her whole nature relieved by this spark of friendly interest.
"Yes," he said, as she
moved toward the door, "you try the department stores," and off he
went.
At that time the department store
was in its earliest form of successful operation, and there were not many.
The first three in the United States, established about 1884, were in
Chicago. Carrie was familiar with the names of several through the
advertisements in the "Daily News," and now proceeded to seek
them. The words of Mr. McManus
had somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low, and she
dared to hope that this new line would offer her something.
Some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter
the buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting a
hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the semblance of
search, without the reality, gives. At
last she inquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed "two
blocks up," where she would find "The Fair."
The nature of these vast retail
combinations, should they ever permanently disappear, will form an
interesting chapter in the commercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modest trade principle the world
had never witnessed up to that time. They
were along the line of the most effective retail organisation, with hundreds
of stores coordinated into one and laid out upon the most imposing and
economic basis. They were
handsome, bustling, successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of
patrons. Carrie passed along
the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress
goods, stationery, and jewelry. Each
separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction. She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and
valuable upon her personally, and yet she did not stop.
There was nothing there which she could not have used--nothing which
she did not long to own. The
dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled skirts and petticoats,
the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all touched her with individual
desire, and she felt keenly the fact that not any of these things were in
the range of her purchase. She
was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average
employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation.
It must not be thought that any
one could have mistaken her for a nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature,
cast unduly upon a cold, calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she
was not. But women are
peculiarly sensitive to their adornment.
Not only did Carrie feel the drag
of desire for all which was new and pleasing in apparel for women, but she
noticed too, with a touch at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and
ignored her, brushing past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves
eagerly enlisted in the materials which the store contained. Carrie was not
familiar with the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neither had she before known the nature and appearance of the
shop girls with whom she now compared poorly. They were pretty in the main,
some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference which
added, in the case of the more favoured, a certain piquancy. Their clothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever
she encountered the eye of one it was only to recognise in it a keen
analysis of her own position--her individual shortcomings of dress and that
shadow of manner which she thought must hang about her and make clear to all
who and what she was. A flame
of envy lighted in her heart. She realised in a dim way how much the city
held--wealth, fashion, ease--every adornment for women, and she longed for
dress and beauty with a whole heart.
On the second floor were the
managerial offices, to which, after some inquiry, she was now directed.
There she found other girls ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with
more of that self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city
lends; girls who scrutinised her in a painful manner.
After a wait of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she was called in
turn.
"Now," said a sharp,
quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a roll-top desk near the window,
"have you ever worked in any other store?"
"No, sir," said Carrie.
"Oh, you haven't," he
said, eyeing her keenly.
"No, sir," she replied.
"Well, we prefer young women
just now with some experience. I
guess we can't use you."
Carrie stood waiting a moment,
hardly certain whether the interview had terminated.
"Don't wait!" he
exclaimed. "Remember we
are very busy here."
Carrie began to move quickly to
the door.
"Hold on," he said,
calling her back. "Give me
your name and address. We want
girls occasionally."
When she had gotten safely into
the street, she could scarcely restrain the tears.
It was not so much the particular rebuff which she had just
experienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day.
She was tired and nervous. She
abandoned the thought of appealing to the other department stores and now
wandered on, feeling a certain safety and relief in mingling with the crowd.
In her indifferent wandering she
turned into Jackson Street, not far from the river, and was keeping her way
along the south side of that imposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping
paper, written on with marking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her
attention. It read, "Girls wanted--wrappers & stitchers." She
hesitated a moment, then entered.
The firm of Speigelheim &
Co., makers of boys' caps, occupied one floor of the building, fifty feet in
width and some eighty feet in depth. It
was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portions having incandescent
lights, filled with machines and work benches.
At the latter laboured quite a company of girls and some men.
The former were drabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil
and dust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more or less
worn shoes. Many of them had
their sleeves rolled up, revealing bare arms, and in some cases, owing to
the heat, their dresses were open at the neck.
They were a fair type of nearly the lowest order of shop-girls--
careless, slouchy, and more or less pale from confinement.
They were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, and strong in
daring and slang.
Carrie looked about her, very
much disturbed and quite sure that she did not want to work here.
Aside from making her uncomfortable by sidelong glances, no one paid
her the least attention. She
waited until the whole department was aware of her presence.
Then some word was sent around, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt
sleeves, the latter rolled up to his shoulders, approached.
"Do you want to see
me?" he asked.
"Do you need any help?"
said Carrie, already learning directness of address.
"Do you know how to stitch
caps?" he returned.
"No, sir," she replied.
"Have you ever had any
experience at this kind of work?" he inquired.
She answered that she had not.
"Well," said the
foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we do need a stitcher. We like experienced help, though. We've hardly got time to break people in."
He paused and looked away out of the window.
"We might, though, put you at finishing," he concluded
reflectively.
"How much do you pay a
week?" ventured Carrie, emboldened by a certain softness in the man's
manner and his simplicity of address.
"Three and a half," he
answered.
"Oh," she was about to
exclaim, but checked herself and allowed her thoughts to die without
expression.
"We're not exactly in need
of anybody," he went on vaguely, looking her over as one would a
package. "You can come on
Monday morning, though," he added, "and I'll put you to
work."
"Thank you," said
Carrie weakly.
"If you come, bring an
apron," he added.
He walked away and left her
standing by the elevator, never so much as inquiring her name.
While the appearance of the shop
and the announcement of the price paid per week operated very much as a blow
to Carrie's fancy, the fact that work of any kind was offered after so rude
a round of experience was gratifying. She
could not begin to believe that she would take the place, modest as her
aspirations were. She had been used to better than that.
Her mere experience and the free out-of-door life of the country
caused her nature to revolt at such confinement.
Dirt had never been her share. Her
sister's flat was clean. This place was grimy and low, the girls were
careless and hardened. They must be bad-minded and hearted, she imagined.
Still, a place had been offered her.
Surely Chicago was not so bad if she could find one place in one day.
She might find another and better later.
Her subsequent experiences were
not of a reassuring nature, however. From
all the more pleasing or imposing places she was turned away abruptly with
the most chilling formality. In
others where she applied only the experienced were required.
She met with painful rebuffs, the most trying of which had been in a
manufacturing cloak house, where she had gone to the fourth floor to
inquire.
"No, no," said the
foreman, a rough, heavily built individual, who looked after a miserably
lighted workshop, "we don't want any one.
Don't come here."
With the wane of the afternoon
went her hopes, her courage, and her strength.
She had been astonishingly persistent.
So earnest an effort was well deserving of a better reward.
On every hand, to her fatigued senses, the great business portion
grew larger, harder, more stolid in its indifference.
It seemed as if it was all closed to her, that the struggle was too
fierce for her to hope to do anything at all.
Men and women hurried by in long, shifting lines.
She felt the flow of the tide of effort and interest--felt her own
helplessness without quite realising the wisp on the tide that she was. She cast about vainly for some possible place to apply, but
found no door which she had the courage to enter.
It would be the same thing all over.
The old humiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial.
Sick at heart and in body, she turned to the west, the direction of
Minnie's flat, which she had now fixed in mind, and began that wearisome,
baffled retreat which the seeker for employment at nightfall too often
makes. In passing through Fifth
Avenue, south towards Van Buren Street, where she intended to take a car,
she passed the door of a large wholesale shoe house, through the plate-glass
windows of which she could see a middle-aged gentleman sitting at a small
desk. One of those forlorn
impulses which often grow out of a fixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting
of a baffled and uprooted growth of ideas, seized upon her.
She walked deliberately through the door and up to the gentleman, who
looked at her weary face with partially awakened interest.
"What is it?" he said.
"Can you give me something
to do?" said Carrie.
"Now, I really don't
know," he said kindly. "What
kind of work is it you want--you're not a typewriter, are you?"
"Oh, no," answered
Carrie.
"Well, we only employ
book-keepers and typewriters here. You
might go around to the side and inquire upstairs.
They did want some help upstairs a few days ago.
Ask for Mr. Brown."
She hastened around to the side
entrance and was taken up by the elevator to the fourth floor.
"Call Mr. Brown,
Willie," said the elevator man to a boy near by.
Willie went off and presently
returned with the information that Mr. Brown said she should sit down and
that he would be around in a little while.
It was a portion of the stock
room which gave no idea of the general character of the place, and Carrie
could form no opinion of the nature of the work.
"So you want something to
do," said Mr. Brown, after he inquired concerning the nature of her
errand. "Have you ever
been employed in a shoe factory before?"
"No, sir," said Carrie.
"What is your name?" he
inquired, and being informed, "Well, I don't know as I have anything
for you. Would you work for
four and a half a week?"
Carrie was too worn by defeat not
to feel that it was considerable. She
had not expected that he would offer her less than six. She acquiesced, however, and he took her name and address.
"Well," he said,
finally, "you report here at eight o'clock Monday morning.
I think I can find something for you to do."
He left her revived by the
possibilities, sure that she had found something at last.
Instantly the blood crept warmly over her body.
Her nervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy street and
discovered a new atmosphere. Behold, the throng was moving with a lightsome step.
She noticed that men and women were smiling.
Scraps of conversation and notes of laughter floated to her.
The air was light. People
were already pouring out of the buildings, their labour ended for the day.
She noticed that they were pleased, and thoughts of her sister's home
and the meal that would be awaiting her quickened her steps.
She hurried on, tired perhaps, but no longer weary of foot.
What would not Minnie say! Ah,
the long winter in Chicago--the lights, the crowd, the amusement!
This was a great, pleasing metropolis after all.
Her new firm was a goodly institution. Its windows were of huge plate
glass. She could probably do well there. Thoughts of Drouet returned--of the things he had told her.
She now felt that life was better, that it was livelier, sprightlier.
She boarded a car in the best of spirits, feeling her blood still
flowing pleasantly. She would
live in Chicago, her mind kept saying to itself.
She would have a better time than she had ever had before--she would
be happy.
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