Miss Ann agreed that it was, the needles slowing down to their normal speed.
“It ain’t a mite too warm for me,” he remarked, displaying a thick and drooping sock above his cracked patent-leather shoes. “Warm weather means plenty of business in the laundry line, Miss Moulton. A feller can get along all right in cold weather, but take it in collar-meltin’ time and clean shirts are a necessity. Ever stop to think how many percales and fancy madrases are spoiled by cheap wringers? Chewed to holes ’fore the iron touches ’em.”
Miss Ann laid her knitting in her lap in forced attention. Something far graver than his visit had worried her to-day, a question of money, a discouraging letter from her brother, which she had kept from her sister, not having the heart to tell her that some property she had counted on to relieve their present modest income had turned out a failure.
“I don’t mind tellin’ you, Miss Moulton, a little secret,” continued Ford, “seein’ we’re old friends and neighbors. It’s sort of lettin’ the cat out of the bag,” he added thoughtfully, “but I’ve been thinkin’ it over, neighbor; besides, I don’t know anybody I’d rather help than you,” he declared, as he fished in his pocket and drew out a square chunk of dark rubber.
“That’s pure Para,” he announced gravely, holding it up for her inspection. “Take a good look at it, Miss Moulton; you don’t often see it. It ain’t worth its weight in gold, but it’s close to it when it comes to wringers. It’s them cheap rollers that does the dirty work. If you was to know what they’re made of, I presume likely you wouldn’t care to wear the clothes they come through. It’s the sulphur in ’em that does the stainin’.”
Again his long hand fumbled in his pocket; this time it drew out a folded paper with a mechanical drawing, a model of a clothes-wringer, which he spread out flat on his knees.
“There she is,” he declared with conviction. “Looks pretty neat, don’t it? That there layer of pure Para on the rollers does the trick, and them two extra cog-wheels on the speed-accelerator keeps her movin’, I kin tell you. Saves time! One turn of that crank’s worth ten of any other household wringer on the market. Can’t jam, can’t squeeze, can’t rust, every nut, screw, and rivet in it galvanized. Even pressure on anything from a lady’s handkerchief to a baby’s bib. Got any idea, friend, what it costs delivered to sufferin’ humanity? Four dollars. Got any idea what it makes?”
“I haven’t an idea,” confessed Miss Ann, looking up, relieved at the sudden and cleanly change in the conversation, and, despite herself, becoming more and more interested.
“’Course you haven’t, Miss Moulton. Be a little surprised, wouldn’t you, if I was to tell you that old Mrs. Miggs, one of our stockholders, doubled her income; that she’s got already a couple of thousand dollars laid aside for a rainy day that she’d never had if I hadn’t come to her in a friendly way. I don’t know as if I’ve ever seen a woman happier. Her mortgage on her house in Yonkers all paid up, nice little new home for herself and niece, and a tidy little sum in the bank—a sum that’s growin’ daily, friend, without so much as liftin’ her little finger. As our head canvasser on the road wrote me yesterday, a man of over twenty years’ experience sellin’ wringers—‘You needn’t worry no more,’ he writes, ‘about the Household Gem holdin’ her own; I’m averagin’ two gross a week right here in Elmira. I could sell three if I had ’em.’ Hold on. I’ve got it, if I ain’t mistaken.” He whipped out the letter and read it aloud, including its postscript.
“You should see the pleased faces on Mondays—women who have never had an easy wash-day before in their lives. The new ad: ‘Let baby do the work,’ catches ’em. Hoping your folks are well,