KinSource - Tale of the Week - Who Keep The Cash

KinSource

Minnesota Tales

The St. Paul Daily Globe (Minneapolis Edition), September 2, 1888, p. 9

WHO KEEP THE CASH.

Eva Gay Investigates the Girls Who Are Employed as Store Cashiers.

As a Rule the Work Is Hard, Pay Small and Hours Very Long.

Trials and Tribulations of One of the Craft Poured Into Her Ear.

The Supply Largely Exceeds the Demand and the Girls Are Cautious.

For several weeks past I've been interviewing the girl who handles the cash whenever I could find a fitting opportunity to do so, and, as a result, have heard more stories of real life than would fill a modern novel. Some have their humorous aspects, but nearly all are the same old tale, heard in every branch of labor, of low wages, long hours and all the attendant discomforts of such conditions.

After I have heard the discontented clerk, or shop girl, say: "Now, it I could only get a place as cashier in some store, how much better off I'd be."

"What makes you think that it's such easy work to be a cashier?" I asked of a girl who had never tried it.

"Why, you don't have anything to do but wear a pretty dress, count out some change, and flirt with all the traveling men," was her comprehensive idea of the situation.

A trip among the Nicollet avenue stores, which have one or more young ladies as cashiers, gave me an insight into their real life. I happended to be acquainted with several, but they were all so busy sticking checks on a spindle and counting cash that they had

NO TIME TO TALK.

I always have lots of time to waste, when it's necessary, so I waited for one until, work being done, she was hurrying home to her evening lunch.

As I sauntered up to talk with her, I noted with surprise that she looked downright shabby; her shoes were patched, dress threadbare, and surely her hat and gloves has seen more than this season's wear. Mentally resolving to find out what had caused this change in my friend's former tasteful attire, I said: "Good evening, Nellie, won't you come with me for a lunch?"

She made several excuses, but I finally induced her to come along. After a little talk about old times, I said: "I see you have a place as cashier, Nellie; how many hours do you have to work there?" "Oh, just the same as the clerks," she said, "about nine hours, but it's much harder work, and doesn't pay very well, either."

"What's hard about it?" I said.

"A good many things; for instance, if there's the slightest mistake, the clerk is always anxious to put it on the cashier; then, in busy times, the proprietor and floor walkers always think it their solemn duty to keep an eye on the cashier in order to see that she keeps both hands busy," she answered.

"Well, I suppose you're paid for the express purpose of making yourself useful, much after the same fashion as a machine would, if one could be procured to do the work," I laughingly remarked.

"That does seem to be about the way of it," said Nellie, with a sigh. "I sit in a little glass cage all day; have gaslight instead of sunshine or daylight; in winter I freeze and in summer it's the extreme of heat. Then, when there's a rush of business, I have to fix my whole attention on the cash, because a few mistakes would result in my discharge. If counterfeit or plugged money happens to come in, without being noticed, it is taken out of my salary, and I can't afford that."

"By the way, how much pay do you get?" I inquired.

She colored and was silent awhile, but finally said: "I'm just going to tell you the truth about it, Eva. I only get $25 a month, that is, if I am not late or careless in any way. My mother is an invalid and my sister hasn't been able to get work for nearly four months. We hire two rooms in a block and the $25 a month that I earn has to pay our rent and support us. Mother tries to do a little sewing, but she is hardly able. My sister isn't strong, but could do bookkeeping or office work."

"I shouldn't think it would be hard to get work of that kind," I interrupted.

"You don't know how many girls are looking for any sort of office work," she said, wearily, "Why, it's almost impossible to get a place unless

SOME INFLUENTIAL PERSON

recommends you, but my sister answers every advertisement and hopes to get work before winter. We'll just starve if she don't. Why, even now, I never dare spend a cent for car fare or a lunch, and the proprietor at the store told me if I didn't wear a better dress that he would be obliged to discharge me, as it hurt his business to have a girl at the desk looking like a ragamuffin."

"Would it do any good to explain your circumstances and ask for an advance of wages?" I suggested, thinking that in reality her work was worth more than the amount paid.

"Oh, no, indeed, that wouldn't do at all," said Nellie in alarm, "there are many girls who live at home and would be glad to get a place like mine. In fact, some good customers have spoken to the manager, asking a place for their friends, and he only lets me stay on condition of doing extra good work. So you see I'm very lucky to be kept at all."

"All the girls think that being cashier is fine work, probably they would change their mind after an experience like yours," I suggested.

"Yes, I think they would," she said, "for even leaving my financial difficulties out of the question, one who has never tried it can hardly realize how hard it is to be shut in a cage all day, without the privilege of speaking to a friend for fear of neglecting work. Then the clerks all have their own cliques, and are either too envious or too careless to extend much courtesy to their companions at the desk. Then in large stores the cashier is sure to be rushed from 10 in the morning until closing time. Some evenings I come out into the street so weary that it seems almost

IMPOSSIBLE TO WALK HOME.

"Then even if I could dress well enough, I'm too tired to go anywhere evenings or Sundays."

"What are you going to do about it?" I asked.

"No girl can do anything about it, only be thankful to have some sort of a place," said Nellie. So after finishing our lunch we parted, and I took occasion to see some other girls in the same business.

In many stores the elevated cash railway puts the cashier up in a box near the ceiling, A more uncomfortable place can hardly be imagined. The position is necessarily cramped and confining, and the air becomes heated to a point hardly short of suffocation. It is hardly wonderful that girls look prematurely old after a few months of such experience.

Not long ago I overheard a woman belonging to the large class of outcasts who swarm our streets. She and a companion were on a shopping tour, and their talk turned on the life of working girls. "I used to be a respectable working girl myself," she said. "I tried for three years to support life on the wages I was paid as cashier in a big store. It didn't seem as if anybody cared what became of me. The patrons of the store disdained to speak a kind word to me because I was a working girl. There were temptations on every side. So I gave up the struggle at last, and it always makes me shiver to see a girl dying by inches in these stores. They call me unworthy of any decent person's notice now, but I don't starve and freeze since I quit being respectable," was her story, and probably many others of her class could tell the same sort of tale.

In large stores I found the wages of cashiers to range from $6 to $10 per week, according to the amount of work to be done. Of course the absence of evening work makes their life more pleasant than it otherwise would be.

Grocery stores nearly always employ a lady cashier. I have a distinct recollection of seven months spent by myself in that business. My working hours were from 7:30 in the morning until 9 in the evening and until 11:30 Saturday evening. My dinner and supper were sent in from the nearest restaurant at

MY OWN EXPENSE,

so that I had no excuse to be away from my desk a moment during the whole day. There wasn't any bookkeeping to do; in fact, the task of killing time became a most appalling feature of the work. The manager obligingly let me keep track of the stock, also of his accounts with the wholesale houses. If, in a moment of rashness, he ordered too much of one sort of stock or forgot to pay bills for a long time after they were due, why it was all the cashier's fault; she had neglected to properly inform him concerning his business. Reading and fancy work were forbidden to me because it didn't look businesslike. Both clerks and customers were to be kept at a respectful distance. I was paid $5 a week for my valuable time, and at last got discharged for offending their best customer by refusing a counterfeit gold piece.The proprietor evidently thought it a part of my business to accept the shady coin and take it as part payment of my princely salary if no other disposition could be made of it. So I had to seek another place. From my talks with other girls in grocery stores, I find their experience similar to my own, only that they don't have any idle time. Spare moments being spent in lettering signs, picking over decayed fruit, interviewing wrathy customers, giving out samples and picture cards, licking postage stamps, or any other little job that may be hunted up to lend the spice of variety to their otherwise monotonous life. A cashier is quite fortunate in getting an evening off once a week, or more likely once a fortnight.

In a meat market is the place where the poor cashier finds her lot cast in hard lines. Those shops fairly smell to heaven and how the flies swarm and buzz around the office window. The hours are not shorter than in the grocery store and her wages usually about $4 a week, which nearly pays car fare and incidental expenses.

TO THE CASHIER

always comes such amusing tasks as facing irate bill collectors; telling the fiend with the sample case that the proprietor is never in; seeing that all the tricks of the trade are properly worked or taking the blame if they fail; waiting for her wages until trade becomes lively; dispatching book agents and church beggars without offending anybody; yet withal she must perch aloft behind her wire fence, undisturbed by those ripples of annoyance which sometimes comes to the most patient of mortals in other positions.

The cashier is nearly always young in years, though perhaps old in experience, and many of them would be pretty if they didn't look so tired.

It's amazing to see the number of girls who seek this work, for it is one of the most wearisome and responsible tasks a girl can have. The check system helps to guard against errors, and also makes more work in keeping track of them. When waiting for a chat I know that my patience has been severely tested; while my young friend wrestled with columns of figures that wouldn't come right, and where is the cashier who dares to leave at night until the uttermost penny is accounted for?

Not much education is required for this [kind] of work, only fair ability to handle figures and a pretty face is often a great help in getting a place.

EVA GAY.