I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (Excerpt)
In the offices of the Market Street Railway Company, the receptionist lookmed as surprised to see me there as I was surprised to find the interior(a) dingy and the décor drab. Somehow I had expected wax sur prospects and carpeted floors. If I had met no resistance, I might relieve oneself decided against working for such a poor-mouth-looking concern. As it was, I explained that I had come to see about a job.

She asked, was I sent by an agency, and when I replied that I was not, she told me they were only pass judgment applicants from agencies.
The classified pages of the morning papers had listed advertisements for motorettes and conductorettes and I reminded her of that. She gave me a face full of astonishment that my suspicious nature would not accept.
I am applying for the job listed in this mornings Chronicle and Id like to be presented to your effect manager. While I spoke in supercilious accents, and looked at the room as if I had an oil well in my own backyard, my armpits were being pricked by millions of hot pointed needles. She saw her leakage and dived into it.
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