“Come, come; open this door, and let’s see what’s going on!” cried a loud, coarse voice.
“Who is it?”
“Who is it? Why, it’s me—Joseph!” replied the voice.
Aunt Martha rose and unlocked the door. A man whose face was like his voice bustled noisily into the room, with a cigar in his mouth and his hat on.
“Come, come; where’s that work? Time’s up! Quick, quick! No time, no pay!”
“It is not quite done, Mr. Joseph.”
The man stared at Aunt Martha for a moment; then laughed in a jeering way.
“Old lady Black, when you undertake to do a piece of work what d’ye mean by not having it done? Damn it, there’s a little too much of the lady about you! Show me that work!” and he seated himself.
The woman brought the basket to him, in the bottom of which were several pieces completed and carefully folded. The man turned them over rapidly.
“And why, in the devil’s name, haven’t you done the rest? Give ‘em here!”