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FRAIL figure, small footed, and

a tinge of bitterness must always accomwith hands as exquisite as those

pany it.

Chaplin knows, as all who of Madame la Marquise. A mass

have risen know, that the very people of brindled-gray hair above a face of

who were clamoring and beseeching him high color and nervous features. In

to their tables and receptions would not conversation the pale hands flash and

before have given him a considered flutter and the eyes twinkle; the body

glance, much less a friendly hand or a sways and swings, and the head darts

level greeting. They wanted to see, not birdlike back and forth, in time with

him, but the symbol of success-réclame, the soft chanting voice. His personality

le dernier cri—and he knew it. is as volatile as his lithe and resilient

He owes little enough to England. To figure. He has something of Hans

him it was only a stony-hearted stepAndersen, of Ariel, touched with rumors

mother—not even the land of his birth. of far-off fairyland tears. But some

Here, as he told me, he was up against thing more than pathos is here. Almost,

that social barrier that so impedes adI would say, he is a tragic figure.

vancement and achievement-a barrier Through the universal appeal of the

that only the very great or the very cinematograph he has achieved univer

cunning can cross. America freely gave sal fame in larger measure than any

him what he could never have wrested man of recent years, and he knows the

from England-recognition and decent weariness and emptiness that accom

society. He spoke in chilly tones of his pany excess. He is the playfellow of

life in England as a touring vaudethe world, and he is the loneliest, sad

ville artist. Such a life is a succession dest man I ever knew.

of squalor and mean things. The comWhen I first heard that Charles Chap

pany was his social circle, and he lived lin wished to meet me, I was only


and moved only in that circle. Almildly responsive. I can never assume

though he had not then any achieve much interest in the folk of the film through byways of Hoxton, Spitalfields,

ments to his credit, he had the potenand the stage; their hectic motions, Stepney, Ratcliff, Shadwell, Wapping,

tialities. Although he was then a youth their voluble, insubstantial talk, and Isle of Dogs; and as we walked he

with little learning, an undeveloped pertheir abrupt transitions are too exhaust

opened his heart, and I understood. I, sonality, and few graces, he had an ing. But I was assured that Charles

too, had spent hard, inhospitable hours instinctive feeling for fine things. AlChaplin was “different,” and finally a of youth in these streets, and knew his though he had no key by which he rendezvous made at a flat in

feeling about them, and could, in a might escape, no title to a place among Bloomsbury. He is different. I was

minor measure, appreciate what he felt the fresh, easy, cultivated minds where immediately surprised and charmed. A

in such high degree at coming back to he desired to be, he knew that he did certain transient glamour hung about them with his vast treasure of guerdons not belong in the rude station of life in this young man to whose doings the and fame. The disordered, gypsy-like which he was placed. Had he remained front pages of the big newspapers were beauty of this part of London moved in this country, he would have remained given and for whom people of all classes him to ecstasy after so many years of

in that station. He would never have were doing vigil; but, discounting thai, the bright, angular, gemlike cities of got out. But in America the questions much remained; and the shy, quiet fig- Western America, and he talked freely are, “What do you know?” and “What ure that stepped from the shadow of the and well about it.

can you do?” not, “Where do you come window was no mere film star, but a At two o'clock in the morning we

from ?" and "Who are your people?" character that made an instant appeal. rested on the curb of an alley-way in St. “Are you public school?”' I received an impression of something George's, and he talked of his bitter To-day England is ready to give him very warm and bright and vivid. There

youth and his loneliness and his strug- all that it formerly denied him. All was radiance, but it was the radiance of

gles, and his ultimate bewildering tri- doors are open to him, and he is beckfluttering firelight rather than steady

umph. Always, from the day he left oned here and there by social leaders. sunlight. At first I think it was the London, he had at the back of his mind, But he does not want them. Well might pathos of his situation that made him vague and formless and foolish, the he quote to them the terms of a famous so endearing, for he was even then bedream of a triumphal Dick Whittington

letter: “The notice which you have ing pursued by the crowd, and had return to the city whose stones were been pleased to take of my labors, had taken this opportunity to get away for once so cold to him; for the most philo- it been early had been kind; but it has a quiet walk through narrow streets. sophic temper, the most aloof from the been delayed till I am indifferent and But the charm remained, and remains small human passions, is not wholly cannot enjoy it ... till I am known and still. It is a part of himself that flows free from that attitude of "a time will do not want it." But twice during our through every movement and every ges- come when you shall hear me." Like ramble-once in Mile End Road and ture. He inspires immediately, not ad- all men who are born in exile, outside once in Hoxton-he was recognized, and miration or respect, but affection; and the gracious inclosures of life, he does the midnight crowd gathered and surone gives it impulsively.

not forget those early years; and even rounded him. There it was the real At eleven o'clock that night I took now that he has made that return it thing—not the vulgar desire of the him alone for a six-hour ramble through does not quite satisfy. It is worth hav- hostess to feed the latest lion, but a certain districts of East London, whose ing—that rich, hot moment when the spontaneous burst of hearty affection, a dim streets made an apt setting for his scoffers are dumb and recognition is ac- welcome to an old friend. He has dark-flamed personality. I walked him corded, the moment of attainment; but played himself into the hearts of the



simple people, and they love him. The its creator, for Chaplin is not a funny more sharply his essential discontent. film "Charlie" is a figure that appeals man. He is a great actor of comic I do not mean that he is miserable-he to them, for it is a type of thwarted parts. Every second of his pictures is is indeed one of the merriest of comambitions, of futile strivings and for- acted, and when he is not acting he panions; but he is burdened with a lorn makeshifts for better things. As I casts off "Charlie," drops the mask of deep-rooted disquiet. He is the shadowwatched the frail, elegant figure strug- the world's fool, and his queer, glamor- friend of millions throughout the world, gling against this monstrous burst of ous personality is released again.

and he is lonely. He is tired, too, and enthusiasm, in which voices hot with He described to me the first sudden worn, this young man whose name and emotion, voices of men and women, conception of his figure of fun—the poor face are known in every habitable part cried boisterous messages of good will ludicrous fool, of forlorn attitudes, who of the world. It is not a temporary to "our Charlie,” I was foolishly moved. would be a gentleman, and never can; fatigue, as of a man who is overworking No Prime Minister could have so fired who would do fine and beautiful things, or running at too high a pitch. His a crowd. No Prince of the house of and always does them in the wrong way weariness, I think, lies deeper. It is of Windsor could have commanded that and earns kicks in place of acceptance the spirit. To the quick melancholy of wave of sheer delight. He might have and approval. At every turn the world the Latins—for he is Anglo-French, and had the crowd and the noise, but not the beats him, and because he cannot fight was born at Fontainebleau—is added rich surge of affection. A prince is only it he puts his thumb to his nose. He that unrest which men miscall the ara spectacle, a symbol of nationhood, but rescues fair damsels, and finds that they tistic temperament. But even without this was a known friend, one of them- are not fair. He departs on great en- these he could not, I think, command selves, and they treated him so. It was terprises that crumble to rubbish at his happiness. He is still an exile, seeking no mere instinct of the mob. They did first touch. He builds castles in the for something that the world cannot not gather to stare at him. Each mem- air, and they fall and crush him. He give him. It has. given him muchber of that crowd wanted privately to picks up diamonds, and they turn to great abilities, fame, fortune, applause; touch him, to enfold him, to thank him broken glass. At the world's disdain he yet it has given him, for his needs, litfor cheering them up. And they could shrugs his shoulders and answers its tle. The irony that pursues genius has do so without reservations, for they scorn with rude jests and extravagant

not let him escape. He is hungry for could not have helped him in his early antics. He is sometimes an ignoble Don affection and friendship, and he cannot years—they were without the power. I Quixote, sometimes a gallant Pistol, and hold them. With the very charm that do not attempt to explain why this one in other aspects a sort of battered Pier- draws would-be friends towards him man, of all other "comics" of stage and rot. All other figures of fun in litera- goes a perverse trick of repulsing them. film, had so touched the hearts of the ture and drama have associates or foils. He desires friendship, yet has not the people as to arouse this frenzy of adula- "Charlie," in all his escapades, is alone. capacity for it. "I am egocentric," he tion. It is beyond me. I could only He is the outcast, the exile, sometimes confessed. To children everywhere his stand and envy the man who had done getting a foot within the gates, but ulti- name brings gurgles of delight; and he it.

mately being driven out, hopping lamely, does not like children. He has added Yet he found little delight in it. with ill-timed nonchalance, on the dam- one more to the great gallery of comie Rather, he was bewildered. I think his aged foot. He throws a custard pie in figures-Falstaff, Pickwick, Don Quix

staggers frightens him. the world's face as a gesture of protest. ote, Uncle Toby, Micawber, Touchstone, Where another might be spoiled he is He kicks policemen lest himself be Tartarin, Punchinello--and he hates dazed. The "Charlie," the figure of fun kicked. There is no exuberance in the "Charlie." that he created in a casual moment, has kick; it is no outburst of vitality. It He sat by the fire, curled up in a corgrown upon him like a Frankenstein is deliberate and considered. Behind ner of a deep armchair like a tired monster. It and its world-wide popu- every farcical gesture is a deadly intent. child, eating shortbread and drinking larity have become a burden to him. Never do the eyes, in his most strenu- wine and talking, talking, talking, flashThat it has not wholly crushed him, ous battles with authority, lose their ing from theme to theme with the disejected his true self and taken posses- deep-sunken haunting grief. Always he concerting leaps of the cinematograph. sion of him, is proof of a strong charac- is the unsatisfied, venting his despair in He talked of the state of Europe, of ter. Your ordinary actor is always an heart-broken levity of grips and relativity, of Benedetto Croce, of the actor "on" and "off;" but as I walked capers. Chaplin realized that there is possibility of a British Labor Governand talked with Chaplin I found myself nothing more universally funny than ment, of the fluidity of American social trying vainly to connect him, by some the solemn clown, and in "Charlie" he life, and he returned again and again to gesture or attitude, with the world- accidentally made a world-fool; though, the subject of England. “It stifles me,” famous "Charlie." There was no trace I think, certain memories of early youth he said. “I'm afraid of it-it's all so set of it. When, a little later, I saw one of went to its making.

and solid and arranged. Groups and his films, I again tried to see through But I am more interested in the man classes. If I stayed here, I know the makeup the Chaplin I had met, and than his work. When, at four o'clock I should go back to what I was. They again I failed. The pathetic, fragile in the morning, he came home with me told me that the war had changed Eng. clown of the films is purely a studio to Highgate and sat round the fire, I felt land-had washed out boundaries and creation, having little in common with still more warmly his charm and still dividing lines. It hasn't. It's left you







even more class-conscious. The coun: try's still a mass of little regiments, each moving to its own rules. You've still the county people, the 'Varsity sets, the military caste-the governing classes and the working classes.

Even your sports are still divided. For one set there are hunting, racing, yachting, polo, shooting, golf, tennis; and for the other, cricket, football, and betting. In America life is freer and you can make your own life and find a place among the people who interest you."

And Chaplin has surrounded himself with quiet, pleasant people. Not his those monstrous antics of the young men and women whose light heads have been shaken by wealth and mob worship. He is not one of the café-hotelevening-party crowd. When the "shop" is shut, he gets well away from it and from the gum-chewing crowd to whom life is a piece of film and its prizes great possessions. You must see him as

unpretentious man, spending his evenings at home with a few friends and books and music. He is deeply read in philosophy, social history, and economics. His wants are simple, and, although he has a vast income, he lives on a portion of it and shares everything with his brother, Syd Chaplin. During the day he works, and works furiously, as a man works when seeking distraction or respite from his troubled inner self. What he will do next I do not know. He seems to be a man without aim or hope. What it is he wants, what he is seeking, to insure a little heart's ease I do not know. I don't think he knows himself. This young man worked for an end, and in a few years, he achieved it, and the world now stretches emptily before him, "and the eyelids are a little weary."

I have here tried to present some picture of this strange, elusive, gracious, self-contradictory character; but it is a mere random sketch in flat outline, and gives nothing of the opulent, glittering, clustering light and shade of the original. You cannot pin him to paper. Even were he obscure, a mere nobody, without the imposed coloring of "Charlie" and world popularity, he would be a notable subject, for he has that wonderful, impalpable gift of attraction which is the greater part of Mr. Lloyd George's power. You feel his presence in a room, and are conscious of something wanting when he departs. He has the dazzling rich-hued quality of Alvan in "The Tragic Comedians." You feel that he is just the fantastic, flamboyant figure that leads revolutions. And when you connect him with "Charlie" the puzzle grows, and you give it up. The ambition that served and guided him for ten years is satisfied; but he is still unsatisfed. The world has discovered him, but he has not yet found himself. But he has discovered the weariness of repeated emotion, and he is a man who lives on and by his emotions. That is why I call him a tragic figure-a tragic comedian.

CHARLIE CHAPLIN AND JACKIE COOGAN IN “THE KID" "He kicks policemen lest himself be kicked. There is no exuberance in the kick: it is no outburst of vital'ty. It is deliberate and considered. ... Never do the eyes, in his most

strenuous battles with authority, lose their deep-suuken haunting grief"



WAS working on a Spanish labor moted to rollers, the rollers to helpers. the room, pressing upon us when we engang in a copper refinery. My job Every few days the time-keeper would tered and forming a close-packed ring of

was to push a truck with a mold on come up, looking for intimate informa- bodies with craned necks. The room it, or a 200-pound cake of copper, or tion. "You married, Tony? How many was silent except for th scraping of bundle of scrap. The gang was wholly children?” That obviously foreshadowed feet. As I looked into their faces they Spanish except for a Polish-American a lay-off for those who did not share the began to fall into the familiar types I chap named Joe, who had been in the joys of matrimony. Half of my friends, had companioned for months in the mill. A. E. F., and myself. Joe was a mason I found, were helping to support their There were Russians who looked as if by trade, but preferred an indoor job brothers, cousins, and countrymen who they had been molded into men roughly during winter months.

had been laid off, and the exodus to the and somewhat hurriedly. Their clothes It was an old-fashioned mill, a couple old country had already begun.

-except the voung men's—were looseof ancient 21-ton furnaces being charged, Every night we looked at the notice fitting and shabby, and faces visible poured, and entirely tended by hand. posted on the clock, which stated how over bulky shoulders were thin and pale. The metal cooked all night, and in the many hours we should work the follow- There was a group of Spaniards, slouchmorning a little after seven o'clock it ing week. It fell from fifty-five hours a ing for the most part, several with the was ready to pour. Then the labor week to thirty-two, and then to twenty- high velvet close-fitting pants the new gang became active-ten or a dozen of four in some departments. Wages went Spanish wear to America from Spain. us. We moved up mold after mold on down in three steps from 45 cents an Portuguese Negroes were there, very our trucks and placed them in a rough hour for common labor, to 30 cents, neatly dressed, with pressed green and circle, within swing of the ladleman's which gave the men working four eight- blue coats, ties, and high collars. They scoop. A mold was a stone affair that hour days $9.60 a week. Single men seemed to cling to gay American-made weighed about a hundred pounds, and were laid off, and husbands strove to clothes even in the face of starvation. the ladle a scoop swung on a chain. The stretch the $9.60 across expenses of a There were Greeks, thinner than the ladleman dished up the hot fluid cop- wife and family.

others, of slight build and a less healthy per and swung it out over the molds. I was working sticker for a while, a complexion, and a number of Americans Very gingerly, when several molds were job a little superior to the common stood aside near the garage door, lookin place, he would dribble the copper labor of the refinery. I shoved the end ing at the eager hunkies rather coninto them, filling each to an inch or so of a reel of metal into a pair of rolls temptuously. of the top. Immediately the gang, with and oiled both sides of it as it went The employment manager nodded to the assistance of a couple of furnace through. There was a bit of knack in two men he recognized as lay-offs from helpers, mounted the molds on their setting the guides for the metal and giv- the wire mill and turned to the door. trucks and rumbled them over a rough ing it the right dose of oil according to The crowd followed him with a dull floor out of the way. I sha'n't quickly the "gauge" of the metal and the number buzz of personal entreaty which ended forget that floor. It was composed of of the "pass." It was not a hard job, but in irony and profanity when he entered steel plates that had warped and broken, full merely of unending monotony. A the door. "Come to-morrow, hey? All rising in one spot into miniature moun. man next me on a similar task had time to-morrow! to-morrow," said some tains, and sinking in another into val- worked at it seventeen years, and a one, bitterly. "How the hell he get leys. With two hundred pounds on a draw-bench operator—who does a job job?” said an Italian, spitting on the truck a ridge on the floor was the dif- that can be learned in three weeks-had floor with emphatic disgust. ference between a smooth voyage and been at his for thirty. Still the primary disaster.

question was not how to make these URING the afternoon men dribbled in We were earning at that time 40 cents jobs more endurablemhundreds of men an hour; wages have since been reduced outside the employment office were fight- some who maintained an artificial and to 30 cents. Forty-five cents with a ing for a chance even at the worst of even painful cheer in the face of continfifty-five hour week-five ten-hour days them; the primary question was how to ual joblessness, and some who gave you with a half-day on Saturday-meant a keep them (hot, dirty, or dangerous as the-detailed causes of their profound deweekly wage of $27. But rumors of the they were) going at all.

spair. I remember an ex-sailor who had unemployment wave were already in the One day I was transferred to a clerk- the courage of a whole battleship. He air. Men began to be lopped off slowly ship in the employment office, and for crossed the floor with a sea-lurch and from gangs in the rolling mill. There six months talked every day with men said: was still enough work to keep the re- who begged, bribed, and threatened for “Morning, Mr. Fielding. Nothing dofinery going for a bit, but the storm a job. We made our lay-off and other ing, huh? The first hundred years is threatened.

records and did our hiring—what there the worst. Well, see you to-morrow." At last came a pay day on which the was of it-in a triangular building set As a rule he went out with a grin of ax fell on five of the gang. It was in- at the confluence of two roads, just immortal good humor, but sometimes evitable that it should be the necks of across the street from the big rolling he'd remain for a yarn or two told with the newcomers, and especially of the mill. It had once been the company a mixture of sailorese and cowboy Spanish–the cheapest form of labor- stable, and was now the company ga- American. He came every few days for that should feel it first. The approach rage. Powerful Pierce trucks covered two months; and left off finally without of pay day from then on became an or- the floor, with two or three Fords a job. deal. Any pay envelope might contain among them, except where at one end- Then there was a laid-off fireman, who a lay-off slip.

the apex of the triangle-a space for the addressed the employment manager as At about this time I was transferred employment office was walled off. As “my dear.” He had been firing in the to the rolling mill, where the bars of the trucks were busy scrap-carrying power-house when three shifts of eight copper we had been making with our from seven to six, the broad floor of the hours was the practice there. The comladle and molds were squeezed between garage served as waiting-room for hope- pany suddenly decided to restore the two large rolls into sheets and strips lit job aspirants.

twelve-hour day in that branch, and he for everything from rivets to the cop- I remember on the first Monday of was dropped. “My dear,” as we came per parts of a dynamo. Here the lop- my clerkship I went out with the em- to call him, had a manner that was alping-off process was likewise in full ployment manager into the garage to most annoyingly conciliatory. He would swing. Most of the common labor was hire two men. There were between a have made except for the fact that he laid off indefinitely, the foremen de- hundred and a hundred and twenty in talked at all--an ideal type of working

::: LIBRA 103

D by exos after threes.en There were

were somewhat subtler; they sent men to the office with special recommendations, but unless the men had a record of service, were especially fitted, and otherwise met requirements the halo of drag was removed and they were dismissed. Only occasionally a combination of influences swept a man in.


man for a nineteenth-century British ing equal, we gave jobs to husbands.
manufacturer. He never spoke ill of the One young American slouched against
company, or of his foreman, or of the the rail on a Monday morning and said,
system. He smiled a wan and depre "Got a job for me?"
cating smile, and told his difficulties in "Married or single?" I asked.
a voice composed in equal degrees of “What can a single man do?” he
appeal and desperation. It broke gently cried, bitterly. "Well, all right, I'll get
as he finished the sentence. When told, married."
as he always was, at the end of an inter- Some of the men who loitered all day
view that there was no job, but that we in front of the employment office were
would keep his name, he would sigh in the so-called “dead wood" of those com-
a very thorough fashion and retreat panies that had taken the dull season as
with appealing but unhostile eyes. The a God-sent time to “clean house." These
employment manager was always on the characters would perhaps drift finally to
verge of being moved either to laughter charity or to city dependency; some
or tears at sight of him.

He was would hold over by the help of friends a Pole, I think and where he picked till business reawakened.

But among up “my dear” as a form of address I them were plenty of householders, re have been unable to guess. He had a spectable taxpayers with large families good case for a job-had been with the and no resources, or old men whose company four or five years, and had a families had grown up and left them or family of children. After several weeks from whom they had parted in the old he was rehired.

country. There was Joe Renick, for exThen the opposite type, whose spirit ample. had not been distilled into sighs and a He was a sweeper in the brass rolling personal appeal. Long months out of mill, and had fallen with the first, bework, with the accompaniment of hun. cause he had no “dependents" and begry children and moral and physical de- cause he was “non-productive" labor. cay, bred a more active form of despair. Joe visited and begged with us daily for

"Got a job for me?" asked an Italian several weeks. He was a short man, a of this party who had worked in the Lithuanian, with gray hair and a very rolling mill for three years.

uncertain and halting walk. He had the “No job to-day," I said,

"shakes" in his hands. When he asked “Me work wire mill,” he returned, for a job, and was refused, he rarely re"long time."

peated his request or insisted much. He "No jobs anywhere in the mill," I re- would stand and stare past you with a turned.

look which indicated how completely "No work six months," he said. puzzled and stunned he was by his "Whatza matter, no job?”

fate. “No orders, no job,” I said, repeating He brought in his bank-book one day the phrase of the employment manager. and silently handed it to me. Eight

“No eat,” he said, wrinkling his fore- months ago he had been laid off by the head into a scowl. "Whatza matter- company. His October balance showed want me steal, eh?" he said under his between four hundred and five hundred breath going out the door.

dollars, which in ten and fifteen dollar Or take Joe, a refinery worker, who amounts had been drawn out through always came in with his shírt open at the winter. There was eleven dollars the neck. He had a powerful build, his left on deposit. I got the story later. face was red, with a few pimples on his He had saved up his earnings forehead, and he had bulging eyes in- sweeper during the fat war years of clined to defiance.

1917 and 1918, intending to go back to “We haven't a job in the mill to-day," the old country to die. He was to sail I said.

early in October. Then, since business "I work here before, ladleman. was good, he figured he would work a Whatza matter?

few more weeks, earn enough for his "No jobs to give you," I said.

passage, and take his savings home in"Pretty bad time," he said, and then, tact. But the depression caught him in after a pause: "You hear 'bout Bridge- the midst of earning that passage port-twenty thousand no work. They money. The savings of the war were raise hell pretty soon. Mebbe you hear gone. He was an old man, as workers 'bout Chicago-bombs_blow the build- go-fifty-five or sixty-with little prosings to hell!"

pect of a new start. He looked as if he was sorry he The absence of special privilege seems couldn't express himself on the situation to most men a kind of injustice. I took in the language of Chicago.

a walk through the rolling mill one day

in search of the time-keeper, and passed CONSIDERABLE group of visitors could an old roller whom I knew.

He was be classified as the men who built thin and tall and English. their hopes upon drag. For the most "Hey, how's the jobs?" part the drag was removed with some Poor." skill and joy by the employment man- "I see yuh hired five men last week," ager, for we began early to keep lists of in an accusing voice. And then: "I've men classified by length of service, fit- got a friend here, a Johnny Bull, 0. E. ness, etc.

A. F. Lodge, see? Can't get a bloody job. We began, for example, to ask every. What's the matter with your employbody, "Are you married?" till it became ment manager? An 0. E. A. F., I say, very well known that, other things be- Foremen and officers of the company

NEMPLOYMENT strictly has its vic

tims not only among the jobless, but among the half-employed-the men who work a three-day week or three days every two weeks. There stands out very clearly in my memory the figure and story of Racinski. He was a wiredrawer. Enough orders trickled through to keep the wire-makers busy for eight hours on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Racinski earned a few cents over twelve dollars a week, and the wife and four children absorbed it. It was enough to buy food on, but he fell behind in rent. His landlord was Mr. Bernheimer, who grew impatient and took the thing to the courts; he “factorized" his pay. The Court ruled that Mr. Bernheimer should have Racinski's wages paid direct to him until the debt was cleared. The debt was forty-eight dollars. According to law, the landlord can factorize all of a man's wages for rent. Racinski worked for two weeks without a pay envelope; then he came into the office.

"I want see big boss," he said.
"He's busy just now; sit down."

For an hour and five minutes Racinski sat thinking visibly about his grievance. The concentration enlarged his eyes and caused him to bend his chin forward on his hand. Twice during the hour he shifted his position and held one hand tightly with the other. The employment manager came out of the office and said:

"What can I do for you?”

Racinski got up like a released trap and stood in front of the employment manager, who put his hands on the railing that divided him from the workmen. He opened his mouth to speak, and hesitated as if the words that he knew in American could hardly hold what he had to say.

Finally he began with great sullenness, “No pay, whatza matter, no pay?"

He followed this with a very obscure rendering in Anglo-Russian of his children's suffering and his own.

The employment manager knew the story of factorized pay. He said: "It is because you haven't paid your rent. They take your pay till your rent is paid. After that all right."

“No money buy food, buy clothes-my babies~"

"When you have paid your rent from your wages, you get money again."

"Give me pay,” said Racinski.

"You have paid two weeks' rent already; after two weeks more you get pay again,” said the employment manager.

Racinski was silent a long while. The words he had been hearing were obscure American; there was only one thing certain about them—they implied some



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