I started down town to answer that advertisement at once. The address was in the old building Washington Street, and there seemed to be all kinds of business carried on there. On the door of the place I was to apply was some name, and the word “Massage.” I had a dim idea what massage meant. I associated it in some way in my mind with illness. I pushed the bell, and the door was quickly opened. A stout, matronly woman stood smiling at me.
“Come in, dearie,” she said, as though she were expecting me.
I found myself in a room that looked like the average boarding-house parlor. It was stuffy and dark. The woman set herself down in a rocker, and she was still smiling at me.
“I came in answer to the advertisement. What do you require me to do?”
Patting me on the arm, she said:
“Easy, easy, dear. Don’t talk so loud. It is massage work, dearie.”
“I can’t do it,” I said, “but I might be able to learn.”
She kept on grinning and winking at me, and I don’t know why, I suddenly felt terribly afraid of her. I said tremulously:
“Will I have to wear aprons?”
She got out of the rocking chair and poked me in the side.