"Ja ne rozumim," said the little maid.
"Do you suppose he would see me?"
"Ja ne rozumim."
"Goodness!" said Miss Billy to herself. "This is worse than taking the census. I wonder what language the child is talking. I'm sure it's not German or French or Latin or Greek. I might try her on hog-latin. I never saw a child who couldn't understand that. May—I—see—Mr.—Schultzsky?" she persisted in the loud and emphatic way that one always uses with a foreigner.
The little girl stared at her in a frightened way.
"Mr. Schultzsky? In?" asked Miss Billy desperately.
The child looked about her with a hunted and terrified expression. Then she rose from her rocking chair, and backed hastily down the steps, keeping a safe distance between herself and the caller. "Ja ne rozumim," she gasped, and disappeared around the house. Miss Billy turned to the door. She looked about for a bell, but finding none, rapped upon the unpainted panel. There was no answer. A second knock only brought an echo which reverberated through the shell of the house.
She hesitated a moment, and then stepping timidly inside, found herself in a tiny box of a hallway which seemed to extend from the front door to the back. Two doors opened into the hall and Miss Billy paused irresolutely at one. A sound of heavy breathing came from within, and she knocked lightly.
"Come in," growled the voice of Mr. Schultzsky, and Miss Billy entered. The inside of the house proved even more uninviting than the outside. The room was small and low, with broken plastering, and soiled hemp carpet on the floor. The only window was closed, and the ragged green shade drawn tightly down. A musty odour, as of ancient food and air, pervaded everything.
On a narrow bed in the corner lay Mr. Schultzsky with a ragged blanket drawn up over his head to exclude even the faint light. Over the foot board dangled three flat irons at the end of a rope—an improvised weight for the injured leg. Miss Billy caught her breath at the sight.