Youth and the Bright Medusa

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“Yes, company. That’s it.”

“Well, this is a queer time of the day to be asking for a cleaning woman.

It’s likely I can get you old Lizzie, if she’s not drunk. I’ll send Willy

round to see.”

Willy, the son of fourteen, roused from the stupor and stain of his fifth

box of cigarettes by the gleam of a quarter, went out. In five minutes he

returned with old Lizzie,—she smelling strong of spirits and wearing

several jackets which she had put on one over the other, and a number of

skirts, long and short, which made her resemble an animated dish-clout.

She had, of course, to borrow her equipment from Mrs. Foley, and toiled

up the long flights, dragging mop and pail and broom. She told Hedger to

be of good cheer, for he had got the right woman for the job, and showed

him a great leather strap she wore about her wrist to prevent dislocation

of tendons. She swished about the place, scattering dust and splashing