They had been standing near a window overlooking a large, paved yard, into which, as he spoke, a wagon rattled at storming pace, and simultaneously a side door opened and two or three boys appeared, each bearing a tray full of tin pails. Each pail was marked in large red letters, legible to Mr. Clare at his window, with the name of the mill, factory, or schoolhouse to which it was destined, and a small white ticket just above bore that of the individual to whom it belonged. It was marvellous to see the swiftness and ease with which the loading was accomplished and the boys vanished, even though one of them stopped to “give a back” to the others, who “leap-frogged” over it into the open door.
“Boys will be boys,” said Father McClosky, “and, sure, exercise promotes digestion. Now, that wagon,” pointing to where it had just disappeared, “will be back inside of half an hour, ready to fill any other orders. There’s mighty good things in some of them buckets, let me tell ye. Miss Sally never stints on them. She says they use up what would be wasted, corners of pie and ends of cake and the like, stray apples and oranges, too, and always a kind thought for any poor girl that’s away from home, or a bone-tired teacher, with no one belonging to her.”
“Is Miss Sally one of your heretics?”
“She’s an angel, av she don’t look it! Come, I dare say she’ll let us into the kitchen, although it’s the busy time with them, and ye mustn’t expect a word with her; but it’s worth seeing.”
It proved to be. A large room, about half the size of the dining-hall, was lined on two sides with tables, a third row occupying the middle of the floor, with gangways between every two. Another side of the room showed a line of ranges in full blast. Between fifteen and twenty young people of both sexes were working under the direction of Sally Price, twelve years more gaunt and gray than when we last saw her, but with an alert, wide-awake quickness in her manner very different from the listless, quiet despair that long ago had aroused the sympathy of Dora Metzerott. A cook was in charge of each range, and a sub-cook stood ready to wait upon each. Along the fourth side of the room ran a double row of electric bells, each bearing the number of the table with which it was connected, and at a desk beneath them sat Polly, as pretty, and apparently as young as ever, though now, in truth, nearly in her thirtieth year.
“My friend Mr. Clare, Miss Polly,” said the priest. “He wants to see how you send in a meal at ‘Prices.’ We’ll not disturb annybody.”
Polly smiled, but in a pre-occupied way, and observed, with her eye upon the clock, which was upon the stroke of twelve, that if they didn’t mind the bells ringing over their heads, they could get a good view at that end of the room, and be in nobody’s way.
“The orders are left, and the tables engaged at any time during the morning,” explained the priest; “so when a bell rings, they know exactly who it is, and what he wants. The hour also is specified, and av he comes on time, his dinner is dished and ready.”
“Suppose he comes early, or late?”
“Then he don’t get it until the time, or gets it cold. ‘Prices’ believes in military punctuality.”