At present I am what
you might call a first class laundryman, but I'm not a fancy
laundryman yet. Since they've put us in whites I go around with the
washer-woman's complaint most of the time. Terrible shooting pains in
my back! My sympathy for the downtrodden is increasing by leaps and
bounds. I can picture myself without any effort of the imagination
bending over a tub after the war doing the family washing while my
wife is out running for alderman or pulling the wires to be appointed
Commissioner of the Docks. The white clothes situation, however, is
serious. It seems that every spare moment I have I am either washing
or thinking of washing or just after having washed, and to one who
possesses as I do the uncanny faculty of being able to get dirtier in
more places in the shortest space of time than any ten street children
picked at random could ever equal, life presents one long vista of
soap and suds.
[Illustration: "THIS WAR IS GOING TO PUT A LOT OF CHINAMEN OUT OF
BUSINESS"]
"You boys look so cute in your funny white uniforms," a girl said to
me the other day. "It must be so jolly wearing them."
I didn't strike her, for she was easily ten pounds heavier than I was,
but I made it easily apparent that our relations would never progress
further than the weather vane.
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