Pausing a moment to collect herself, Christie recollected that she had not asked the name of the new friend whose help she was about to ask. A little sign on the door caught her eye, and, bending down, she managed to read by the dim light of the street lamp these words:
“C. WILKINS, Clear-Starcher.
“Laces done up in the best style.”
Too tired to care whether a laundress or a lady took her in, she knocked timidly, and, while she waited for an answer to her summons, stood listening to the noises within.
A swashing sound as of water was audible, likewise a scuffling as of flying feet; some one clapped hands, and a voice said, warningly, “Into your beds this instant minute or I’ll come to you! Andrew Jackson, give Gusty a boost; Ann Lizy, don’t you tech Wash’s feet to tickle ’em. Set pretty in the tub, Victory, dear, while ma sees who’s rappin’.”
“C. WILKINS, CLEAR STARCHER.”
Then heavy footsteps approached, the door opened wide, and a large woman appeared, with fuzzy red hair, no front teeth, and a plump, clean face, brightly illuminated by the lamp she carried.
“If you please, Rachel sent me. She thought you might be able”—
Christie got no further, for C. Wilkins put out a strong bare arm, still damp, and gently drew her in, saying, with the same motherly tone as when addressing her children, “Come right in, dear, and don’t mind the clutter things is in. I’m givin’ the children their Sat’day scrubbin’, and they will slop and kite ’round, no matter ef I do spank ’em.”