“I will speak to Mrs. Bond. I will consider the matter. Perhaps there may be some position—some form of household service,” he ventured, with the groping masculine idea that a domestic career was the only one open to a girl like Lena.
Then Lena laughed.
“Thank you, sir. But I ain’t no more fit for housework than I be for a jeweler’s trade, or floss embroidery, or a front pew in Heaven. There ain’t a lady in Christendom would put up with me. I wouldn’t like it, either,” said Lena candidly. “There’s only one thing I would like. It’s just come over me, standin’ here. I guess I’ll manage.”
“I shall wish to know,” observed Bayard anxiously, “what you are going to do, and where you will be.”
“I’ll take a room I know of,” said Lena. “It ain’t in Angel Alley. It’s a decent place. I’ll get Johnny’s mother to come along o’ me. She’s dead sick of the Widders’ Home. She’s kinder fond of me, Johnny’s mother is, and she can take in or go out, to help a bit. Then I’ll go over to the powder factory.”
“The powder factory?” echoed the puzzled pastor.
“The gunpowder factory, over to the Cut,” said Lena. “They’re kinder short of hands. It ain’t a popular business. The pay’s good, and Lord, I shouldn’t care! The sooner I blow up, the safer I’ll be. I guess I’d like it, too. I always thought I should.”
“Very well,” said the minister helplessly. “That may answer, till we can find something better.”
It was now past twelve o’clock, and the night was growing bitterly cold. Bayard said good-night to Lena, and they separated opposite Trawl’s door.