"Come, come, Master Lorki!" he said, grasping the boy's hands in his and pressing them warmly. "None of that, now, by my quid! Shh! Hush! We're not setting sail yet! At least you can join me on the bridge of the schooner! I'll wait for you. Now I'm going to heave anchor, for I hear the voice of old Cat o' Nine Tails, otherwise called The Pasha. To your posts, all of you!"
The packing-room, a huge hall around the sides of which ran a platform, was situated on the first floor of the main building, and accommodated three hundred workwomen, for the most part fresh, plump, turbulent girls, brazen, full blooded, with laughing, sensual mouths, intrepid eyes, possessing the gift of gab. They were uniformly and cleanly garbed in blue skirts and cottonette jackets, their hair tightly twisted into a knot at the back and held together under little, white frilled caps, the strings of which fell down their backs. Employed in putting the finishing touches to the candles as they came out of the mould, in polishing and packing them, some plying the roller, others the wick-cutter, they bustled about the three rows of tables and polishing machines, and the candles passed from one machine to the next, approaching, with each manipulation, the type destined to garnish candelabra and girandoles. Since it was very hot working above the steam propelled machines, and since they worked with a great deal of spirit, many of them, in order to be more comfortable, opened their waists and uncovered their throats, braving the reproofs administered by Tilbak reluctantly, and, to borrow his own picturesque phrase, only when the girls had reefed their last sails. They and their machines were reflected in the floor, constantly waxed by stearine waste, and as slippery
