When Carmen stepped from the train that morning she stood for a moment looking uncertainly about her. Everywhere on one side as far as she could see were low, ramshackle frame houses; a few brick store buildings stood far up the main street; and over at her right the enormous brick mills loomed high above the frozen stream. The dull roar of the machinery drifted through the cold air to her ears. Up the track, along which she had just come, some ragged, illy clad children were picking up bits of coal. The sight seemed to fix her decision. She went directly to them, and asked their names.
“Anton Spivak,” answered one of the children dully, when she laid a hand on his shoulder.
“And where do you live?”
“Over dere,” pointing off to the jungle of decrepit sheds. “Me an’ him, we worked in de mills; but dere ain’t no work fer us now. Dey’s on half time.”
“Take me to your home,” she said firmly.
The boy looked his astonishment. “Dere ain’t nobody to home,” he replied. “De ol’ man an’ woman works in de mills daytimes.”
“Come-a home wi’ me,” spoke up the boy’s companion, a bright-faced little urchin of some ten years who had given his name as Tony Tolesi. “We lives in de tenements.”
Carmen looked at him for a moment. “Come,” she said.
Up the main street of the town they went for a short distance, then turned and wended their course, through narrow streets and byways, down toward the mills. In a few minutes they were in the district where stood the great frame structures built by the Ames company to house its hands. Block after block of these they passed, massive, horrible, decrepit things, and at last stopped at a grease-stained, broken door, which the little fellow pushed open. The hall beyond was dark and cold. Carmen followed shivering, close after the boy, while he trotted along, proud of the responsibility of conducting a visitor to his home. At the far end of the hall the lad plunged into a narrow staircase, so narrow that a stout man could not have mounted it. Up four of these broken flights Carmen toiled after him, and then down a long, desolate corridor, which sent a chill into the very marrow of her bones.
“Dis is where we lives, Missy,” announced the little fellow. “Miss-a Marcus, she live in dere,” pointing to the door directly opposite. “She ain’t got only one arm.”