Foreman Jennie. A young woman of business

Preface

This story first appeared in the international Christian Endeavor organ, The Golden Rule. I have taken advantage of this republication to ^double the size of the story, relating many additional incidents in the lives of Foreman Jack and Foreman Jennie.

The book is sent out in the hope that it will help the thousands of brave young men and women everywhere, who are not ashamed but count it their highest honor to be known as “working people.” Strength and skill to your hands, dear friends, clearness to your minds, and courage to your hearts !

Boston, March 20, 1895.

Contents

CHAPTER. PAGE.

I. Some Bad Copy 9

II. Some Worse Copy . 19

Chapter I. Some Bad Copy

“T NEVER will advertise for help again ! ”

* Well might Foreman Edwards exclaim thus in disgust. A two-line notice in yesterday afternoon’s Journal , stating that a compositor was needed in the office of The White Plume , had brought down upon him an overwhelming throng of applicants.

They were all girls, — timid girls and bold girls ; quiet girls and magpie girls ; girls coarse and girls ladylike ; yes, and Christian girls jostled by hard-faced worldlings ; for when a girl goes into business she no longer can pick her company.

“I want to be fair to all these,” explained Foreman Edwards to Mr. Barton, the editor of The White Plume. “ I want to be perfectly fair, and so I have given each of them the same

FOREMAN JENNIE.

bit of typewritten copy to set up. But I have only four cases at which they can work, so I do not get along very fast.”

Mr. Barton watched with interest to see how variously the different contestants took the test. Each was given the “ stick that is, the little steel box with a sliding side set just to the width of a column, the box in which the type was to be ranged. Each seated herself on a high stool in front of the slanting “case” with its many compartments, one to a letter. Before each, in the iron “ copyholder,” was the fateful bit of typewritten manuscript which she must reproduce, as speedily and accurately as possible, in solid lead.

Some went at it as a dog eats a stolen bone, furtively and fearfully. Some were so anxious that they made many mistakes ; some were so careless that they made more. Some watched the clock so much that they fell far behind ; some fell further behind because they took no thought for speed at all.

Each was required at the conclusion of her task to lift up the mass of ordered type into a

SOME BAD COPY.

II long, shallow brass tray called a “galley.” This was nervous work. It called for a strong, firm hand and a steady temper. Few accomplished the feat with safety and speed. Many dropped a word or a line. Some — poor girls ! — “ pied ” the entire “ stickful.”

“ Quite a panorama of human life,” said Editor Barton, looking on, “ and a good illustration of why so many fail, and so few succeed.” And he went away to write an editorial on it.

Among this crowd of contesting compositors is — Jennie . Take a look at her as she quietly waits her turn, — a good look, for, indeed, she is worth looking at.

She is rather under height, but womanly enough to make up for that. Her hair — yes, I will use that adjective, for it is just the right one — is auburn, and her eyes are blue. They look straight at you, with a shy light in them that wants to be friendly. Her face is that pretty pink and white that always add themselves to such hair and eyes — to her that hath shall be given — and her face also has, it must be confessed, the freckles that constitute the

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only flaw in this dower of Saxon beauty. Jennie’s dress is of the color that auburn-haired girls always prefer, if they are wise, — a rich, dark brown. And Jennie’s hands are very white.

“Hum!” mutters Foreman Edwards, when he notices those white hands. “ A green one that, I’ll wager ! ”

But watch Jennie when it comes her turn. Cool-headed and swift-fingered, her white hand flies light and rapid as a sea-bird, back and forth between the grimy boxes and the firmly held “ stick.” Steadily grow the well-ordered lines of type, and before long the clear blue eyes begin to flash with the excitement of the end of a race.

“ Wh-e-e-ew I 5 '” whistled Dick, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. Dick, — Richard Caswell, — was Jack Edwards’s assistant, as bright and breezy a young fellow as you often see. He was setting up an “ad,” — a job that required circumspection, — yet he kept a sharp lookout on the interesting trial. “Wh-e-e-ew! Smart as pepper ! ”

Foreman Edwards looked on with amaze-

SOME BAD COPY.

!3 ment, as the white hands, now black as ink upon the inner surface, lifted the type from the stick to the galley with easy art, and he asked the young compositor where she had been working.

‘‘Nowhere, sir,” answered Jennie; “nowhere, that is, except at home. My brother Henry and I ran a printing-press for fun. But Henry is dead.” And hot tears clouded the sunny blue eyes.

“Oh!” exclaimed Foreman Edwards awkwardly ; and as by this time the rest of this set of competitors had completed their tasks, he busied himself with “ proving ” their work. Placing the half-filled galley on the bed of the proof-press, he inked the type, laid over it a sheet of paper, and with a lever brought down upon it the vise-like pressure of the machine.

Each paragraph was marked with the name of the compositor whose work it was, set up with the type, and Foreman Edwards’s trained eye rested with pleasure on that signed “Jennie Rolland.” The spacing between the words was good and uniform. Few words were divided at

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H

the end of a line. The three glaring errors that had been purposely placed in the copy — one in spelling, one in punctuation, and one in capitalization — were properly corrected. There was only one mistake in the paragraph, probably caused by the slipping of an “a” into the neighboring “ r ” box.

Jennie was among the last to be tested. Mr. Edwards had singled out the poorer compositors, as the examination proceeded, and sent them away. Only a few remained whom he considered likely to be suitable.

“You may all go,” said Foreman Edwards, after a brief review of his proofs, “ all but Miss Rolland and Miss Banks. Those two are about equally good, and I want them to try again on harder copy.”

With disconsolate looks the unsuccessful applicants filed from the room, leaving Jennie and Miss Banks alone. Miss Banks was a pale and thin-faced girl, whose hands were constantly working in nervous excitement.

Foreman Edwards took from the copy-drawer some manuscript at the sight of which Dick

SOME BAD COPY.

and all the girls in the room — and you may be sure the entire force of compositors were interested spectators of the scene just described — cast at each other looks of amused anticipation. It was Mr. Barton’s copy, and rivalled Horace Greeley’s. Indeed, it was worse than Mr. Greeley’s, for the renowned founder of The Tribune did at least represent the same letter always by the same sort of indescribable scrawl ; but the contortions of Editor Barton’s chirography were of infinite variety.

Poor Jennie and Miss Banks knit their brows. For the first time in her life the former was glad that her dear, dead brother had written such a wretched hand. The abominable bit of manuscript before her suggested, in many ways, Henry’s scrawls, which her patient, sisterly fingers had so often put into type ; for Henry had been quite a writer, and always sent his manuscripts to the editors already printed, that they might be read more easily, and stand a better chance of acceptance.

For how much trouble and needless toil poor penmen are responsible ! Our two contestants l6 FOREMAN JENNIE.

grew hot and cold over their “takes,” as the printers call these detached fragments of articles. Eager fingers were anxious to seize the waiting type, but incomprehensible hieroglyphics barred the way. Each glanced nervously at the other, then bent her brows again over the puzzling sentences. No hints of punctuation here, or of spelling, or of capitalization. Fortunate, indeed, were they when a single syllable of a word gave a clew to that word and its neighbors.

Jennie’s paragraph was something about the French Revolution, and many of the words were made possible to her through her memory of Carlyle’s fiery history, which she and Henry had read together. Henry had once said to her, “ A printer can know nothing he will not sometimes have occasion to use.” Jennie thought of that now.

At last, after a fashion, Jennie was done. Miss Banks, less quick witted and well read, was struggling with her final sentences. Nevertheless Mr. Edwards took what she had, and “ pulled a proof” of both hers and Jennie’s.

SOME BAD COPY.

!7

The two girls watched him with eager eyes as he scanned their work. His decision was sharp and emphatic.

“ Miss Rolland, yours is by far the best.”

Poor Lucy Banks ! With that announcement down went her head on the dirty case, and she burst into a storm of sobs.

“ O mother ! mother ! I cannot find work — I cannot — I cannot — and you will die ! ”

Jennie’s arms were around the weeping girl in an instant.

“ Why, dear, what is it? Do you need the work so much, so very much? ”

“Mother is sick — so sick — and we have not even money enough to pay the doctor — or get nourishing food — ”

And down again went the head of the sobbing girl on the hard case.

There was an awkward silence, while every one in the room stared at the weeper.

Jennie wore a perplexed look on her face. Getting a situation was even harder work than she had imagined.

“ / need the job, too,” she argued with her-

FOREMAN JENNIE.

. 18 -

self. “ My mother is poor as well as hers — and I am the only one to earn money for her.”

But quick as a flash came another inner voice : “ My mother is not sick, nor are we in any desperate straits.”

Then went up a little fervent prayer to heaven: “ Dear Jesus, what do you want me to do ? ”

So you see Jennie did not speak from mere impulse when she said, with a flush on her face, and in a very decided tone, “ Mr. Edwards, I cannot take this place — I will not. And you must give it to this dear girl.”

Chapter II. Some Worse Copy

OREMAN EDWARDS did not know what

A to do. This was a new experience — the chosen compositor refusing the place because an inferior competitor needed it more than she did.

“ But, Miss Rolland,” he said awkwardly, “ I do not want Miss Banks. I want you, for you are the better workman.”

“You will take her, will you not, sir, if I do not come ? ”

“Why — yes — but I don’t want her; I want yew.”

“ Well, then, I am not coming,” and Jennie, with red lips pressed tightly together, turned to

“ Hold on ! ” cried the foreman.

He was much pleased with the white-handed compositor, and saw a way out of the present difficulty.

“ One of my regular compositors, Miss Rol-

FOREMAN JENNIE.

land, is away sick. I am holding her place for her, but she may not come back, and your friend may have it until she returns, if she wishes.”

“ Oh, I do wish ! ” exclaimed Lucy Banks, who had received Jennie’s offer with mingled astonishment and joy. “ Oh, if I can earn only a little money !• You have no idea how much I need it — I and my poor mother.”

“ All right then,” said Foreman Edwards. “Be on hand to-morrow at eight, sharp, both of you; ” and he turned to the “ stone,” where he was making up a page, with the air of a man who had lost much time.

The listening girls of the composing-room force, perched on their stools back of the slanting cases, looked at each other significantly as their foreman made his decision. Two of them found words for their thoughts. Said Grace Lawrence to her neighbor (Grace was a gentlefaced type-lassie, whose black hair made her appear still more pale than she really was) : —

“ Good for Mr. Edwards ! How glad I am ! And I want to know that Miss Rolland.”

SOME WORSE COPY.

Said Sallie Baldwin to her neighbor (Sallie had round, beady black eyes and the temper that usually goes with such eyes) : —

“ That’s a sly trick, and a right-down mean one. Now Mary Norton will come back, when she gets well, and find this girl has sneaked into her place. It’s a put-up job between those two. They are a precious pair ! ”

And Dick, for his part, simply looked at his superior, and briskly nodded approval.

In the meantime Jennie and Lucy found themselves together in the elevator, and, to the astonishment of the elevator boy, Lucy impulsively threw her arms around Jennie’s neck.

“You dear, good girl! You were ready to give up your place for me. How can I ever pay you ? ”

“ I am glad you have a chance to work,” answered Jennie, half crying, “ for you seemed to be very poor, poorer than we are — mother and I.”

“ You poor, too? ” asked Lucy Banks.

“Yes. Henry was supporting the family, and — Henry — died.” The words came out

FOREMAN JENNIE.

slowly, and with an effort. Are such words ever easy to say? “And now mother and Cousin Catharine and I have nothing but mother’s pension to live on, and that is only twenty dollars a month.”

“Only twenty dollars a month!” exclaimed Lucy. “ Why, I should call that riches ! ”

“ But now you can earn that much yourself,” suggested Jennie, “ and more.”

“ Yes, indeed, thanks to you, you dear, kind girl ! ” and Lucy gave Jennie an impulsive kiss.

This talk took place, the most of it, in the lower hall, and the new friends parted at the door, Lucy to her tenement on Slawter Street, and Jennie for the train to the suburbs.

For Jennie was so happy as to live out of the noise and bustle of the busy city of York, and in the modest little suburban village of Weston, — a knot of pretty, old-fashioned houses nestling on a hill, a lovely river winding at its foot.

The cars sang a pleasant song to our young printer on the way out: “Work — work —

SOME WORSE COPY.

work — you have work — you are at work — out in the world — out in the world ! ” Nor did Jennie forget her gratitude to Him who alone sends all opportunities for honest labor. She was proud of her speedy success in finding employment, and very happy in the thought of the money it would bring in to the relief of her poor, worried mother.

But nevertheless, as she made her way up the long hill to the sweet little vine-clad house that was her home — every rich vine and every foot of the handsome lawn a memorial of her dear, dead brother’s care — her thoughts shifted from her own good fortune to the lot of the far poorer girl she had left in the city.

Here on this fragrant hillside were freshness and beauty, a wide reach for the eye, kindly neighbors, all the hallowed influences of home, and school, and church. There in the distant city were foul odors, and fouler sights and sounds, brutal homes, sickness-breeding air, crowded schools, and, for a church, too often a corner saloon.

Jennie was met by the sweetest old lady in

2 4 foreman Jennie.

the world, whose eyes were as blue as her daughter’s, and whose hair had once been brown, also, but was now white.

“Well, daughter, dear, how fares the world?”

“I am a woman of business, mother mine! Just think of it — already ! And I go to my place of business to-morrow morning. Why, I am a foot taller than I was yesterday ! ”

“ Good ! how grateful I am — to you, darling, and to the Father. But come in and tell us all about it.”

The other part of the “us” was Cousin Catharine, a woman almost as old as Mrs. Rolland, and entirely dependent on her for support. Miss Catharine Tapley had had many a sorrow and misfortune to bear, and had borne them all without the Burden-bearer. As a result, her eyes were sharp, and her mouth was tense, and her spirit very unhappy.

Cousin Catharine did not hesitate in her disapproval when Jennie in her glib narration came to the contest and its conclusion.

“ What a fool you are, Jennie Rolland ! Taken in by every impostor. How do you know that that girl is not better off than we are? And what if she is not?”

“ Why, Cousin Catharine, I could see that she was an honest girl.”

“See? Humph! I suppose, if you had your year’s salary that your mother needs so much, you would hand it over to the first fraud that asked for it. It amounted to just that.”

Jennie looked troubled, but her mother’s gentle voice reassured her.

“Well, but, Catharine, it turned out all right, don’t you see? Jennie got her place, and the other girl got work, too ; so I think God must have approved of Jennie’s conduct. Why, of course He did, for are we not to obey the Golden Rule even in getting a situation?”

To which Cousin Catharine answered merely with her favorite “ Humph ! ”

Notwithstanding her mother’s comforting words, Jennie had a little worry in reserve, which she poured into her mother’s ears just before going to bed, Cousin Catharine having already retired.

“Mother, suppose that other girl gets well

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FOREMAN JENNIE.

and comes back, — and, of course, I cannot wish her not to, — what is to become of that poor girl, Miss Banks?”

“ Oh, we will not borrow trouble, daughter. Let ’s live just one day at a time ; and you have lived to-day beautifully, I am sure.” With that she kissed Jennie good-night.

Our printer was up betimes the next morning, “as a business man should be,” she brightly explained, and the conductor and brakeman were cheered by the happiness that shone in her beautiful face as she boarded the early train for the city.

But if Jennie was happy, much more was Lucy Banks, who stood waiting for the elevator when Jennie arrived.

“ Oh, my mother is better already, I do believe ! ” she cried, at sight of her new friend, without waiting for the usual greetings ; and as they went up together she chattered away to Jennie, telling of the nice things she had bought for the invalid on the strength of the salary she was to earn.

The printing-office had a little dressing-room

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2 7 which was crowded with girls. They were wagging their tongues like magpies, putting on the black cambric wrappers they wore for muchneeded protection to their dresses. As the newcomers appeared, a constrained silence fell upon the group.

Gr^ce Lawrence was the one to break it.

Going frankly up to Jennie, she said, stretching out her hand, “ We are glad to welcome you, Miss Rolland, and you, too, Miss — ”

“ I am Lucy Banks.”

“ And I am Grace Lawrence, and this is my dearest friend, Bess Summers ; ” and so she went on, prettily introducing the company.

Jennie found herself quite at home with these wide-awake, nice-appearing girls. She learned at once that girls may be just as refined and ladylike in a printing-shop as in a parlor. With a few exceptions, the compositors on The White Plume were gentle-voiced, gentle-mannered young women, intelligent, kindly, and capable. Not all daughters of millionaires possess these qualities.

With the entrance of Foreman Edwards the

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girls hastened to their high stools. Much to her satisfaction, Jennie was given a place next to Grace Lawrence. Lucy Banks and Sallie Baldwin sat behind them. There were four girls to a window, back to back.

Mr. Edwards passed around the copy with a jovial air. To Jennie it was all a huge frolic. It brought to mind, however, the many jolly hours she and Henry had passed over their types, and the tears would have come if she had had time. But now she was a “man of business,” and must remember Kingsley’s song, “For men must work, and women must weep.” It was with a little earnest prayer to her great Elder Brother, her undying Brother, that Jennie entered on her business career.

But — how I wish I did not have to tell you what I must tell you next !

If Jennie’s copy for yesterday had been bad copy, this that Mr. Edwards now gave her was 4 a thousand times worse. The writing was bold and plain, and every word seemed to burn itself into Jennie’s brain as she read. It was an arrogant and shameless attack on the Christian

SOME WORSE COPY.

2 9 religion. It vilified as an impostor the Saviour to whom she had just prayed. It mocked at such faith as hers, and ridiculed its possessors. Jennie’s pure and sheltered life had never been sullied with such blasphemy. And must she begin her business life in this base way?

There must be some mistake about the copy. She had read The White Plume ever since she began to read at all. It was a noble paper for young people. While it made no effort to teach religion, she had always found its pages wholesome and free from taint.

But there was no mistake. She had the beginning of the article, Grace had another “ take,” and Sallie Baldwin behind her had what seemed to be its conclusion.

What was she to do? It did not take her long to decide.

Her joyful hopes of the morning came to her mind, her dreams of the household comforts she would buy with the money she would earn, her hopes of relief she would bring to her precious mother — yes, and she could not help thinking of Cousin Catharine’s sneers that were

FOREMAN JENNIE.

sure to come. But none the less bravely she took the hateful manuscript from the copy-holder, carried it to Foreman Edwards, and stoutly said : —

“ Mr. Edwards, you may dismiss me if you please, but I cannot set this copy.”

Chapter III. A Morning Out Of Joint

ND why can’t you set that copy, pray?”

asked Foreman Edwards, opening his eyes wide at our determined young woman.

“ Because, sir, it is a bad article. It says dreadful things — shameful things — about

Christ.”

“ But who are you to set yourself up as a critic of that article — or any other?” sneered the foreman. “ Go back to your work, and let us have no more nonsense.”

“ Please, Mr. Edwards, do not be offended, but it would be a sin to set up that article, — at least, I cannot help thinking so, — and I cannot do it.” Jennie’s sweet face began to grow pale, but her voice was firm.

“Well, this is a pretty piece of work!” growled Mr. Edwards, annoyed to see that every one in the room was listening. “ Are you going to insist on proving every statement in

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every article before you will set it? Must you stop and calculate before you will let an author say that the sun is ninety-three million miles away from the earth ? Pooh ! ”

“You must see, sir, that this is different,” pleaded Jennie, earnestly. “ The distance of the sun is not a matter of conscience.”

“ Well, you seem ready enough to slip the burden from your conscience to some one else’s, for you know the work must be done, and some one else will do it if you do not.”

Jennie had not thought of that, and she hesitated a minute; then she said, “I cannot do wrong, even to keep some one else from doing wrong, and it would be wrong to set that article. Please, Mr. Edwards, do not say anything more, but let me go home, if I must. I did not know' The White Plume ever printed such things, or I should not have come here.”

“ That was not White Plume matter,” explained Mr. Edwards. “ It was copy for The Leader, which is printed here,” mentioning a well-known infidel paper. “ I suppose you need not set The Leader matter, if you object

— not this particlar article, anyway. There is copy enough on hand to-day.” And he handed Jennie another bit of manuscript.

Sallie Baldwin spoke up sharply.

“ I had as lief take that as not, Mr. Edwards. I am no saintly hypocrite,” she added in an undertone, though loud enough for Jennie and the other girls to hear.

Thus began what proved to be a very disagreeable morning. Jennie was not quite so sure of the wisdom of her conduct as she would like to have been. It made her uncomfortable to see Sallie at work on that blasphemous article, and to know that her protest had simply rolled the sin — however innocently — from her own shoulders to those of another.

“Oh, what a tangled world this is!” she muttered to herself.

Nor did our young woman of business find typesetting the romantic employment it had seemed when she and Henry had merrily worked at their cases in the breezy attic at home, with its beautiful window overlooking the winding valley of the Waubeek River.

FOREMAN JENNIE.

For one thing, this type was so very dirty. Jennie learned afterwards that the type used on The While Plume was dusted over with graphite preparatory to making an electrotype, and that that was why skin, fingernails, clothes, and copy were so quickly ebonized. Her soft white hands were Jennie’s pride, and they shrank from the grimy bits of metal, that none the less speedily hid her fair palms with a shiny coat of inky black.

Moreover, it was not half so instructive work as she had expected. Her copy was given her in disconnected bits, or “ takes.” If the articles would have had any interest to her, they lost it, presented in this fragmentary way. A place at the compositor’s case was not the university her eager fancy had pictured it.

Then there was the poor handwriting ! Jennie registered a vow that all her fs should in the future be scrupulously crossed, and every i dotted. She determined to use only the blackest ink obtainable, and to put a wealth of space between the lines. She decided to learn a u that could not by any possibility be confounded with an n, and an a that bore no resemblance to an o. She made up her mind to use no contractions, and when she had occasion to blot out anything, to blot it out so thoroughly that not even she herself could read it. Many similar resolutions were formed by her, for she was filled with indignation at the careless writers that waste so much of other people’s time and strength.

Shrewd as Jennie was in the reading of poorly written manuscript, she was nonplussed several times in the course of the morning, and made some egregious blunders, over which Mr. Edwards frowned when the proof-reader handed him the corrected proof of Jennie’s work.

It was while Jennie was returning from submitting to the foreman her first “galley” full, and was bringing with her a second galley, empty and ready to receive her future work, that an accident happened to her.

To reach her stool she must squeeze between Grace and Sallie. The passageway was narrow, and Jennie had her long, brass galley.

The galley which Sallie was filling was very insecurely perched on supports that projected

3 ^

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from the side of her case, and Jennie, unfamiliar with the arrangement, jarred the galley in passing.

Nothing is so startling as the fall of type in a printing office. Nothing in the world is more disheartening than the sight of “pied” type. There are so many hundreds of pieces, and they are so small. The hopeless mass on the floor represents so much work, and work so utterly lost. Indeed, it is worse than lost, because it is so much harder to “distribute” the type again into its boxes from the pi than if it were ranged in words and sentences.

Jennie’s eyes filled with tears. The poor girl was nervous and worried, and this was too much for her.

Sallie spoke up quick and sharp.

“Well, there! That is what comes from having awkward green hands around. Mr. Edwards ! your new girl has tipped over my galley, and she must pay me for it. I don’t propose to lose my time and work through her carelessness.”