That windy autumn noon the young girls of the hat factory darted
out of the loft building and came running back with cans of coffee,
and bags of candy, and packages of sandwiches and cakes. They
frisked hilariously before the wind, with flying hair and sparkling
eyes, and crowded into the narrow entrance with the grimy pressmen
of the eighth floor. Over and over again the one frail elevator was
jammed with the laughing crowd and shot up to the hat factory on
the ninth floor and back. The men smoked cigarettes as the girls
chattered and flirted with them, and the talk was fast and free. At
the eighth floor the pressmen got off, still smoking, for "Mr. Joe"
was still out. Even after the presses started up they went on
surreptitiously, though near one group of them in a dark corner of
the printery lay a careless heap of cotton waste, thoroughly soaked
with machine-oil. This heap had been passed by the factory
inspector unnoticed, the pressmen took it for granted, and Joe, in
his slipshod manner, gave it no thought.
General
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