"She made the last in '81," replied the other. "The penny-in-the-slot machines broke up her business."
"Really?" the banker commented. "It seems a pity."
The air was growing colder and the dancing motes of snow made halos about every street-lamp.
"Don't they look like swarms of Mayflies?" remarked Mr. Wattles. "One might almost believe it was summer."
"Yes, so one might," assented Mr. Clatfield, "now that you speak of it."
A few steps up a slippery alley they stopped before a shabby little house, the shabbiest of a row of little houses, each one of which displayed the legend "Washing Done."
"Come in," said the cashier, as he pushed open the door.
Within, a tall spare woman stood with bare red arms before a washtub on a backless wooden chair. Upon the floor, amid the heaps of linen waiting for the tub, a litter of small children rolled and tumbled like so many puppies. Festoons of drying shirts and handkerchiefs hung in an atmosphere of steam and suds.
At sight of Mr. Wattles the woman broke into a flood of explanation and excuse. The water had been frozen all the week, the sun had refused to shine, the baby had been sick. There were a dozen reasons why he could not have his collars, as the speaker called on Heaven to bear witness.