Yet at every dawn she renewed her quest, with a glass of blue milk and a bite of bread for breakfast. Every day and all day she tramped the long, aching streets. And every night, despairing but resolute, she came home for her supper of bread and milk and for the sleep of the hungry and distressed.
It was now a Thursday morning. The milkman had pounded at her door and, receiving no answer, had left no milk. Still gnawing her crust, Katie slunk out of the tenement, and, at the step, was waylaid by the rent-collector, a little man with a sharp, white face that told plainly of his own struggle. He blocked the exit.
"Good-day to you, Miss Flanagan," he said, touching his dirty cap.
"Good-mornin', Mr. Woods," she answered, aware that the hour for the last engagement was approaching.
The man was one whose business forced him to mince nothing.
"I was comin' up to git yer rent," he continued. "It's three weeks overdue."
"I'm afraid I'll have to be askin' you to let it run a bit longer," said Katie, and her voice, in spite of all resolution, trembled.
"But I've been an' done that twice fer you, Miss Flanagan. The boss is after me as hard as I'm after you—an' harder."
"I know it. I—you can't stand him off another week, Mr. Woods?"
"Nix on the stand-off, miss."