Martin learned to do many things. In the course of the first week, in one afternoon, he and Joe accounted for the two hundred white shirts. Joe ran the tiler, a machine wherein a hot iron was hooked on a steel string which furnished the pressure. By this means he ironed the yoke, wristbands, and neckband, setting the latter at right angles to the shirt, and put the glossy finish on the bosom. As fast as he finished them, he flung the shirts on a rack between him and Martin, who caught them up and "backed" them. This task consisted of ironing all the unstarched portions of the shirts.
It was exhausting work, carried on, hour after hour, at top speed. Out on the broad verandas of the hotel, men and women, in cool white, sipped iced drinks and kept their circulation down. But in the laundry the air was sizzling. The huge stove roared red hot and white hot, while the irons, moving over the damp cloth, sent up clouds of steam. The heat of these irons was different from that used by housewives. An iron that stood the ordinary test of a wet finger was too cold for Joe and Martin, and such test was useless. They went wholly by holding the irons close to their cheeks, gauging the heat by some secret mental process that Martin admired but could not understand. When the fresh irons proved too hot, they hooked them on iron rods and dipped them into cold water. This again required a precise and subtle judgment. A fraction of a second too long in the water and the fine and silken edge of the proper heat was lost, and Martin found time to marvel at the accuracy he developed - an automatic accuracy, founded upon criteria that were machine-like and unerring.
But there was little time in which to marvel. All Martin's consciousness was concentrated in the work. Ceaselessly active, head and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him a man was devoted to furnishing that intelligence. There was no room in his brain for the universe and its mighty problems. All the broad and spacious corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed. The echoing chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower, whence were directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble fingers, and the swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad, sweeping strokes, just so many strokes and no more, just so far with each stroke and not a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along interminable sleeves, sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished shirts, without rumpling, upon the receiving frame. And even as his hurrying soul tossed, it was reaching for another shirt. This went on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under the overhead California sun. But there was no swooning in that superheated room. The cool guests on the verandas needed clean linen.
The sweat poured from Martin. He drank enormous quantities of water, but so great was the heat of the day and of his exertions, that the water sluiced through the interstices of his flesh and out at all his pores. Always, at sea, except at rare intervals, the work he performed had given him ample opportunity to commune with himself. The master of the ship had been lord of Martin's time; but here the manager of the hotel was lord of Martin's thoughts as well. He had no thoughts save for the nerve-racking, body- destroying toil. Outside of that it was impossible to think. He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her. It was only when he crawled to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning, that she asserted herself to him in fleeting memories.
"This is hell, ain't it?" Joe remarked once.
Martin nodded, but felt a rasp of irritation. The statement had been obvious and unnecessary. They did not talk while they worked. Conversation threw them out of their stride, as it did this time, compelling Martin to miss a stroke of his iron and to make two extra motions before he caught his stride again.
On Friday morning the washer ran. Twice a week they had to put through hotel linen, - the sheets, pillow-slips, spreads, table- cloths, and napkins. This finished, they buckled down to "fancy starch." It was slow work, fastidious and delicate, and Martin did not learn it so readily. Besides, he could not take chances. Mistakes were disastrous.
"See that," Joe said, holding up a filmy corset-cover that he could have crumpled from view in one hand. "Scorch that an' it's twenty dollars out of your wages."
So Martin did not scorch that, and eased down on his muscular tension, though nervous tension rose higher than ever, and he listened sympathetically to the other's blasphemies as he toiled and suffered over the beautiful things that women wear when they do not have to do their own laundrying. "Fancy starch" was Martin's nightmare, and it was Joe's, too. It was "fancy starch" that robbed them of their hard-won minutes. They toiled at it all day. At seven in the evening they broke off to run the hotel linen through the mangle. At ten o'clock, while the hotel guests slept, the two laundrymen sweated on at "fancy starch" till midnight, till one, till two. At half-past two they knocked off.
Saturday morning it was "fancy starch," and odds and ends, and at three in the afternoon the week's work was done.
"You ain't a-goin' to ride them seventy miles into Oakland on top of this?" Joe demanded, as they sat on the stairs and took a triumphant smoke.
"Got to," was the answer.
"What are you goin' for? - a girl?"
"No; to save two and a half on the railroad ticket. I want to renew some books at the library."
"Why don't you send 'em down an' up by express? That'll cost only a quarter each way."
Martin considered it.
"An' take a rest to-morrow," the other urged. "You need it. I know I do. I'm plumb tuckered out."
He looked it. Indomitable, never resting, fighting for seconds and minutes all week, circumventing delays and crushing down obstacles, a fount of resistless energy, a high-driven human motor, a demon for work, now that he had accomplished the week's task he was in a state of collapse. He was worn and haggard, and his handsome face drooped in lean exhaustion. He pulled his cigarette spiritlessly, and his voice was peculiarly dead and monotonous. All the snap and fire had gone out of him. His triumph seemed a sorry one.
"An' next week we got to do it all over again," he said sadly. "An' what's the good of it all, hey? Sometimes I wish I was a hobo. They don't work, an' they get their livin'. Gee! I wish I had a glass of beer; but I can't get up the gumption to go down to the village an' get it. You'll stay over, an' send your books dawn by express, or else you're a damn fool."
"But what can I do here all day Sunday?" Martin asked.
"Rest. You don't know how tired you are. Why, I'm that tired Sunday I can't even read the papers. I was sick once - typhoid. In the hospital two months an' a half. Didn't do a tap of work all that time. It was beautiful."
"It was beautiful," he repeated dreamily, a minute later.
Martin took a bath, after which he found that the head laundryman had disappeared. Most likely he had gone for a glass of beer Martin decided, but the half-mile walk down to the village to find out seemed a long journey to him. He lay on his bed with his shoes off, trying to make up his mind. He did not reach out for a book. He was too tired to feel sleepy, and he lay, scarcely thinking, in a semi-stupor of weariness, until it was time for supper. Joe did not appear for that function, and when Martin heard the gardener remark that most likely he was ripping the slats off the bar, Martin understood. He went to bed immediately afterward, and in the morning decided that he was greatly rested. Joe being still absent, Martin procured a Sunday paper and lay down in a shady nook under the trees. The morning passed, he knew not how. He did not sleep, nobody disturbed him, and he did not finish the paper. He came back to it in the afternoon, after dinner, and fell asleep over it.
So passed Sunday, and Monday morning he was hard at work, sorting clothes, while Joe, a towel bound tightly around his head, with groans and blasphemies, was running the washer and mixing soft- soap.
"I simply can't help it," he explained. "I got to drink when Saturday night comes around."
Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three o'clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted down to the village to forget. Martin's Sunday was the same as before. He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing, thinking nothing. He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that he did not like himself. He was self-repelled, as though he had undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul. All that was god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its taste was bad in his mouth. A black screen was drawn across his mirror of inner vision, and fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where entered no ray of light. He envied Joe, down in the village, rampant, tearing the slats off the bar, his brain gnawing with maggots, exulting in maudlin ways over maudlin things, fantastically and gloriously drunk and forgetful of Monday morning and the week of deadening toil to come.
A third week went by, and Martin loathed himself, and loathed life. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the editors refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail. He read her letter apathetically. She did her best to say how much she liked them and that they were beautiful. But she could not lie, and she could not disguise the truth from herself. She knew they were failures, and he read her disapproval in every perfunctory and unenthusiastic line of her letter. And she was right. He was firmly convinced of it as he read the poems over. Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as he read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in mind when he wrote them. His audacities of phrase struck him as grotesque, his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible. He would have burned the "Sea Lyrics" on the spot, had his will been strong enough to set them aflame. There was the engine-room, but the exertion of carrying them to the furnace was not worth while. All his exertion was used in washing other persons' clothes. He did not have any left for private affairs.
He resolved that when Sunday came he would pull himself together and answer Ruth's letter. But Saturday afternoon, after work was finished and he had taken a bath, the desire to forget overpowered him. "I guess I'll go down and see how Joe's getting on," was the way he put it to himself; and in the same moment he knew that he lied. But he did not have the energy to consider the lie. If he had had the energy, he would have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget. He started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in spite of himself as he neared the saloon.
"I thought you was on the water-wagon," was Joe's greeting.
Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle.
"Don't take all night about it," he said roughly.
The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it.
"Now, I can wait for you," he said grimly; "but hurry up."
Joe hurried, and they drank together.
"The work did it, eh?" Joe queried.
Martin refused to discuss the matter.
"It's fair hell, I know," the other went on, "but I kind of hate to see you come off the wagon, Mart. Well, here's how!"
Martin drank on silently, biting out his orders and invitations and awing the barkeeper, an effeminate country youngster with watery blue eyes and hair parted in the middle.
"It's something scandalous the way they work us poor devils," Joe was remarking. "If I didn't bowl up, I'd break loose an' burn down the shebang. My bowlin' up is all that saves 'em, I can tell you that."
But Martin made no answer. A few more drinks, and in his brain he felt the maggots of intoxication beginning to crawl. Ah, it was living, the first breath of life he had breathed in three weeks. His dreams came back to him. Fancy came out of the darkened room and lured him on, a thing of flaming brightness. His mirror of vision was silver-clear, a flashing, dazzling palimpsest of imagery. Wonder and beauty walked with him, hand in hand, and all power was his. He tried to tell it to Joe, but Joe had visions of his own, infallible schemes whereby he would escape the slavery of laundry-work and become himself the owner of a great steam laundry.
"I tell yeh, Mart, they won't be no kids workin' in my laundry - not on yer life. An' they won't be no workin' a livin' soul after six P.M. You hear me talk! They'll be machinery enough an' hands enough to do it all in decent workin' hours, an' Mart, s'help me, I'll make yeh superintendent of the shebang - the whole of it, all of it. Now here's the scheme. I get on the water-wagon an' save my money for two years - save an' then - "
But Martin turned away, leaving him to tell it to the barkeeper, until that worthy was called away to furnish drinks to two farmers who, coming in, accepted Martin's invitation. Martin dispensed royal largess, inviting everybody up, farm-hands, a stableman, and the gardener's assistant from the hotel, the barkeeper, and the furtive hobo who slid in like a shadow and like a shadow hovered at the end of the bar.
马丁学会了许多活儿。第一周的一个下午他跟乔“消灭”了那两百件白衬衫。乔使用压力熨今。那东西是个钩在一条钢筋上的熨斗，由钢筋提供压力。他用这东西熨烫了村肩、袖口和领圈，使领圈跟袖口形成直角，再把胸口烫出光泽。他迅速熨完了这几处立即把衬衫扔到他和马丁之间的一个架子上，马丁接过去“补火”——就是说熨烫没有浆过的地方。
这活儿一小时一小时地高速干下去是非常累人的。旅馆外宽阔的阳台上男男女女穿着凉爽的白衬衫，啜着冰冻的饮料，舒缓着血液循环，可洗衣房里空气却热得要冒泡。巨大的火炉怒吼着，从通红烧到白炽。熨斗在潮湿的垫布上运行，送出一团团的水汽。这些熨斗跟家庭主妇们的熨牛大不相同。能用蘸水的指头测量的一般熨斗乔和马丁用起来都嫌太冷。那种测量法不行。他俩都是把熨斗放近面颊，以某种微妙的心灵反应来测量温度的。马丁对这办法很欣赏，却不明白其中奥妙。烧好的熨斗太热，需要用铁棒钩起送到冷水里浸一浸。这也要求健全的判断。多浸了若干分之一秒也会破坏准确的温度所产生的微妙细腻的作用。马丁为自己所培养出的精确反应感到惊讶——一种自动化的精确，准确无误到机器的标准。
可是他们没有时间惊讶。马丁的全部意识都用到了工作上。头和手不停地运动着，把他变成了一部智能机器，把他作为人的一切都集中到提供那种智能上去了。他脑子里再也装不下宇宙和宇宙间的重大问题了。他那广阔巨大的心灵走廊全关闭了。他被封锁了起来，像个隐士。他灵魂的回音室狭小得如一座锥形的塔，指挥着他的胳膊和肩肌、十个灵巧的指头、和熨斗，沿着雾气腾腾的道路迅跑，做大刀阔斧的挥动。挥动的次数不多不少，而且恰到好处，决不过火，只沿着无穷无尽的两袖、两腰、后背、后摆急跑，然后把熨烫完的衬衫甩到承接架上，还不让它打皱。而他那匆忙的灵魂在扔出这一件的同时已经在向另一件衬衫伸了过去。他们就像这样一小时一小时地干着，而车间外的整个世界则正让加利福尼亚的太阳晒得发昏——这间温度过高的屋子里可没有人发昏，因为阳台上乘凉的客人需要清洁的衬衫。
马丁大汗淋漓。他喝子大量的水，可天气太热，他又太累，喝下的水全部透过肌肉从毛孔里惨了出来。在海上，除了极少数特殊消况．他所从事的工作总能给他许多机会独自思考。那时船老板只主宰了他的时间；而在这儿，旅馆老板甚至还主宰了他的思想。在这儿只有折磨神经戕害身体的苦工，没有思想。除了干活儿不可能思考。他已不知道还爱着露丝，露丝甚至已根本不存在。因为他那疲于奔命的灵戏没有时间去回忆她。只有在晚上钻进被窝或是早上去吃早饭时露丝才在他短暂的回忆中确认了自己的地位。
“这是地狱，是么？”乔有一次说。
马丁点点头，却也感到一阵温怒。是地狱，自不待言，还用说大。他们俩干活儿时不说话，说话会打乱步伐。这回一说话就乱了。让马丁的熨斗错过了一个动作，多做了两个动作才赶上节拍。
星期五早上升动了洗衣机。他们每周要洗两次卧室用品：床单、枕头套、床罩、桌布和餐巾。洗完之后又得全力以赴干“花式浆洗”。那是慢工细活，又繁琐又精细。马丁学起来不是那么容易．而且不能冒险，一出错就是大乱子。
“看见了吧，”乔说，举起一件极薄的胸衣背心，那东西团一团就可以藏在手心里。“一烫坏就得扣掉你二十元工资呢。”
因此马丁没有烫坏那种东西。他的肌肉虽因此而松弛下来，神经可比任何时候都紧张。他怀着同情听着伙伴的咒骂。那是他在辛辛苦苦浆洗着漂亮衬衫时发出的——那些衬衫妇女们自己不浆洗却偏要穿。“花式浆洗”是马丁的噩梦，也是乔的噩梦。他们挖空心思节省下来的分分秒秒都叫这“花式浆洗”吞食了。他们搞了一整天“花式浆洗”，直到晚上七点才搞完，然后用热轧滚筒熨烫客房用品。晚上十点旅馆客人都睡了，两个洗衣工还在流着汗忙“花式浆洗”呢。忙到半夜一点、两点，直到两点半才下班。
星期六又是“花式浆洗”和许多零碎活儿，到下午三点，一同的活儿才终于干完。
“累成这样你不会还要骑七十英中午去奥克兰吧？”乔问。这时两人坐在台阶上庆祝胜利。
“要去，”马丁回答。
“去干吗？——看姑娘么？”
“为省两块五毛钱火车票钱。要到图书馆去续借几本书。”
“干吗不用快递寄去寄来？寄一趟不过两毛五。”
马丁考虑着这个建议。
“明天还是休息一下吧！”乔劝他，“你需要休息。我知道我就需要休息。累得半点力气都没有了”
他确实是满脸倦容。他整个礼拜都不可钱胜，为争分夺秒而奋斗着，从不休息，消灭着耽误．粉碎着障碍。他是一股清泉，流泻出无可抗拒的力量，是一部高功率的活马达，一个干活的魔鬼。可完成了一周的工作之后他却瘫痪了。他筋疲力尽，形容憔悴，那张漂亮的脸松弛了、瘦削了、堆满了倦容。他没精打采地吸着烟，声音异常呆板单调，全身上下那蓬勃的朝气和活力都没有了。他的胜利似乎很可怜。
“下周还得照样干，”他痛苦地说，“这一切又有什么意思呢？哼，我真恨不得去当个流浪汉。流浪汉不工作不也照样活么？天呐，我真想喝一杯啤酒，可又鼓不起劲下村子里去。你就留下吧！把书用快递寄回去，否则你就是他妈的一个大傻瓜。”
“可我星期天一整天在这儿干什么呢？”马丁问。
“休息呀。你不知道自己有多疲倦。唉，星期天我可是疲倦得要命，连报都懒得看的。有一回还生了病——伤寒。在医院内呆了两个半月，什么活儿都不干。那可真是美妙！”
“真是美妙，”过了一分钟他又重复道。
马丁洗了一个澡，洗完发现乔已经不见了。马丁估计他十有八九是喝酒去了。但要证实还得走半里路下到村里去。那路他觉得似乎太长。他没有穿鞋躺在床上，一时下不定决心。他没有取书读，疲倦得连睡意都感觉不到了。只迷迷糊糊躺着，几乎什么都不想做，直躺到晚饭时候。乔没有回来吃晚饭，马万听花匠说他很可能到酒吧“拆柜台”去了，便已经明白。晚饭一吃完他立即上了床，一觉睡到了天亮才感到获得了充分的休息。乔仍然没有露面。马丁弄来一张星期天的报纸，在树林里找了个阴凉角落躺下，一上午不知不觉就过去了。他没有睡觉，也没有谁干扰他，可报纸没有看完。吃完午饭他又回到那里读报，读着读着又睡着了。
星期天就像这样过去了。星期一早上他又辛辛苦苦地分捡开了衣物。乔用一根毛巾把脑袋扎得紧紧的，呻吟着，咒骂着，启动洗衣机，扰和着液体肥皂。
“我就是忍不住，”他解释说，“一到星期六晚上非喝酒不可。”又一周过去了。每天晚上都要在电灯光下苦战，直到里期六下午三点才结束。这时乔又品尝到了他已经凋萎的胜利的滋味。然后又信步走向村里，去寻找忘却。马丁的星期天跟以前一样：躺在树荫里漫无目的地看报，一躺许多个小时，什么都不做，什么都不想。他虽然对自己反感，却因太累，不去想它。他鄙弃自己，仿佛是卷入了堕落，或是天性卑劣。他身上神圣的一切全给抹掉了。豪情壮志没有了，活力没有了，澎湃的热情感觉不到了。他已经死了，仿佛没有了灵魂，成了个畜生，一个干活的畜生。阳光透过绿叶筛了下来，他看不见它的美；蔚蓝的天穹再也不像往日那样对他悄语，颤栗着展示出秘密，启示他宇宙的辽阔了。生命到了他嘴里只有苦味，沉闷而愚蠢，难以忍受。他内心那视觉的镜子罩上了一道黑色的帷幕。幻想躺进了密不透光的漆黑的病房。他羡慕乔能够在村子里肆无忌惮地“拆柜台”；脑子里能有蛆虫咬啮；能伤感地思考着伤感的问题，却也能情绪高涨；他羡慕他能醉得想人非非，光辉灿烂，忘掉了即将到来的星期一和一整周能累死人的苦役。
第三周过去，马丁厌恶了自己，也厌恶了生命。失败感令他难堪。现在他已明白过来：编辑们拒绝他的作品是有理由的。他嘲笑自己和自己的幻梦。露丝把他的《海上抒情诗》穿了回来。他无动于衷地读着她的信。露丝尽可能表示了喜欢这些诗，说它们很美。但她不能撒谎，不能对自己粉饰现实。他明白这些诗并不成功。他从露丝的信中每一行缺乏热情的官样文章里看出她并不认可，而她是对的。他重读了这些诗，坚信自己的感觉没有错。美感与神奇感已离开了他。读诗时地发现自己在纳闷：当初落笔时自己心里究竟有什么感受？他那些气势磅确的词句给他怪诞的印象：他的得意之笔其实很鄙陋。一切都荒唐、虚伪、不像话。他若是意志力够坚强，是会把《海上抒情诗》当场烧掉的——发动机房就在下面。但要花那么大力气把稿子送到锅炉里去并不值得。他全部的力气都用到洗别人的衣服上去了，再没有丝毫内力气于自己的事。
他决定在星期天振作起精神给露丝写封回信。可到星期六下午，等地结束了工作洗完了澡，那寻求忘却的愿望又压倒了他。“我看还是到下面去看看乔怎么样吧，”他这样为自己辩护，却也明白这是在撒谎，可他已没有力气去想它。即使有力气，他也不会思考了，因为他只想忘却。于是他便由着性子慢慢往村子走去。快到酒店时不知不觉加快了步伐。
“我以为你还在戒酒呢。”乔招呼他说。
马丁不屑于辩解，开口便叫威卜忌，给自己的杯子斟满之后把酒瓶递给了乔。
“别整夜整夜地喝，”他粗鲁地说。
乔捧了酒瓶磨蹭着，马丁不愿意等，一口气喝完了一杯又满斟了一杯。
“哎，我可以等你，”他凶狠地说，“可你也得快点。”
乔赶快斟满酒，两人对饮起来。
“是干活累的吧？”乔问他。
马丁拒绝讨论这个问题。
“这儿干的简直是地狱的活儿，我知道，”对方说下去，“但眼看你开了戒我心卫仍不是滋味。来，祝你好运！”
马丁闷声不想地喝着，咬着牙叫酒，咬着牙请人喝酒，叫得酒吧老板害怕。那老板是个带女人气的乡下小伙子，水汪汪的蓝眼睛，头发从正中分开。
“像这样逼咱们穷鬼们干活，真不要脸。”乔在说话，“我要是没有喝醉我就会不管它三七二十一把洗衣房给他烧掉。是我喝醉了才救了他们的，我可以告诉你。”
但是马丁没有答腔。几杯酒下肚他感到脑子里有令他激动的蛆虫在爬。啊！这才像活着！三周以来他第一次呼吸到了生命的气息，他的梦也回来了。幻想从漆黑的病房里出来了，像火焰一样明亮，引诱着他。他那映照出幻想的镜子清澈如银，有如一块旧的铭文大体磨去，又刻上了新的字迹的铜件。奇迹与美手挽手跟他同行，他拥有了一切力量。他想告诉乔，可乔有他自己的幻想。那是个周密的计划，他要当一家大的蒸汽洗衣场的老板，再也不受洗衣房的奴役。
“告诉你，马，我那洗衣场决不用童工——杀了我我也不干。下午六点以后车间里连鬼也不准有一个。听我说！机器要多，人要多，要在正规的时间服完成任务。因此，马，你来帮我的忙，我让你当监工，管全店，上上下下全管。我的计划是：戒酒，存上两年钱——存好钱就——”
但是马丁已经走开，让他去对着店老板唠叨，直唠叨到那位人物被叫去拿酒——是两个农民进了门，马丁在请他们喝酒。马丁出手阔绰，请大家都喝：几个农场帮工、一个马夫、旅馆花匠的下手、酒店老板，还有一个像幽灵一样溜进来、像幽灵一样在柜台一头游荡的。偷偷摸摸的流浪汉。
