“‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, scuttling out of his seat, ‘I’m sure, Miss, I didn’t dream who you were.’
“‘It isn’t your business to dream,’ I said, still furious. ‘When a woman comes to you with a complaint, treat her civilly. You’re nothing but the paid servant of the city. You don’t own the citizens of Riverport!’
“That finished him. ‘I’m going now,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to sit down. See that you attend to that matter without delay,’ and I stalked out, and he followed me with his mouth open, and if I didn’t know what had happened, I’d say he was standing at that door yet gazing up the street after me.”
“What did happen?” asked Margaretta, eagerly.
“I got my back yard cleaned,” said Berty, drily. “Grandma says two policemen came hurrying up the street before I got home. They went into some of the houses, then women came out, and boys swarmed over our fence, and in an hour there wasn’t the ghost of a tin can left.”
“Think of it,” said Margaretta, “what wretched things for you to be exposed to—what degradation!”
“It isn’t any worse for me than for other women and girls,” said Berty, doggedly, “and I’m going to find out why River Street isn’t treated as well as Grand Avenue.”
“But River Street people are poor, Berty.”
“Suppose they are poor, aren’t they the children of the city?”
“But, Berty—workmen and that sort of people can’t have fine houses, and horses and carriages.”