AT WORK
The nearest address was in the lower part of Madison Street. Mary D——, a widow. The house was one of the typically dirty tenements of that section. As I entered the hall a strong odour of garlic and onions almost suffocated me. I rang the janitress' bell. She opened the door and as soon as I mentioned the name of Mary D. she knew I was from the charities, for she immediately began to tell me that the D.'s have no coal, that the charities have neglected them, that the woman is sick and the five children, the oldest of whom is eleven years old, are hungry and naked.
"But, my dear lady, I'm not from the charities. I'm a sewing machine agent," I lied, according to the advice of Mr. Lawson.
"Oh! a new agent? Why, she has just paid $1 last week on the machine," and with changed attitude: "What do you bother me for? Go upstairs and see her—third floor back left." She re-entered her apartment. I walked up the three floors. At the door I stood a little and thought how I should behave. "Who's there?" a voice asked. "Sewing machine agent," I answered, timidly.
"Come next week—I have no money," was the reply. "Excuse me. I can't open the door for you now. I am not dressed, Mr. George."
I went downstairs and in the hall I noted down everything that the janitress had told me. Five children, no coal, no food, $11.50 rent, and so on.
My next address was in Henry Street.
It was one of the coldest days of the winter of 1911. The snow was knee-deep and the icy wind blew at a terrific speed. The house where I had to go was one of those old, decrepit buildings, where misery lurks and peers at one from every door, every brick, windowpane, nail and knob. The windows were covered with a coat of ice. Some broken panes were stuffed with pillows and rags. On the ground floor was a grocery. "They surely buy their provisions here," I thought, and entered the store. An old woman, the storekeeper, asked me what I wanted.
"Could you give me any information about the family S.," I asked.