“One of ’em!” says she with a snort, yankin’ some more pieces out of the bundle and slippin’ a fresh spool of cotton onto the machine.
“What’s the job?” says I.
“Baby dresses,” says she.
“Good money in it?” says I.
“Oh, sure!” says she. “Forty cents a dozen is good, ain’t it?”
“What noble merchant prince is so generous to you as all that?” says I.
Mrs. Tiscott, she shoves over the sweater’s shop tag so I can read for myself. Curious,—wa’n’t it?—but it’s the same firm whose name heads the Piny Crest subscription list. It’s time to change the subject.
“How’s Annie?” says I, lookin’ over at her.
“Her cough don’t seem to get any better,” says Mrs. Tiscott. “She’s had it since she had to quit work in the gas mantle shop. That’s where she got it. The dust, you know.”
Yes, I knew. “How about Tony?” says I.