Helen would have faced almost any peril of the range—wolves, a bear even, a stampede, flood, or fire—with more confidence than she felt at this moment.
She had some idea of how city people lived, having been to school in Denver. It seemed impossible that Uncle Starkweather and his family could reside in such a place as this. And yet the street and number were correct. Surely, the taxicab driver must know his way about the city!
From behind the door on her right came the rattle of dishes and voices. Putting her courage to the test, Helen rapped on the door. But she had to repeat the summons before she was heard.
Then she heard a shuffling step approach the door, it was unlocked, and a gray old woman, with a huge horsehair wig upon her head, peered out at her.
“Vot you vant?” this apparition asked, her black eyes growing round in wonder at the appearance of the girl and her bag. “Ve puys noddings; ve sells noddings. Vot you vant—eh?”
“I am looking for my Uncle Starkweather,” said Helen, doubtfully.
“Vor your ungle?” repeated the old woman.
“Mr. Starkweather. Does he live in this house?”
“‘S’arkwesser’? I neffer heard,” said the old woman, shaking her huge head. “Abramovitch lifs here, and Abelosky, and Seldt, and—and Goronsky. You sure you god de name ride, Miss?”
“Quite sure,” replied the puzzled Helen.