The woman looked at him. “For how long?” she asked.
“I'm not quite sure,” he said. “I want it for one night, and then if I get a job, I may want it longer.”
“A job in Lockmanville?” said the woman.
“Well, I've the promise of one,” he replied.
“There can't be very many,” said she. “I've two rooms I've always rented,” she added, “but when the glass works shut down the men went away. One of them owed me three dollars, too.”
“I—I'm not able to pay very much,” said Samuel.
“Come in,” responded the woman; and he sat down and told her his story. And she told him hers.
Mrs. Stedman was her name, and her husband had been a glass blower. He earned good wages—five dollars a day in the busy season. But he worked in front of a huge tank of white-hot glass and that was hard on a man. And once on a hot day he had gone suddenly dizzy, and fallen upon a mass of hot slag, and been frightfully burned in the face. They had carried him to the hospital and taken out one eye. And then, because of his family and the end of the season being near, he had gone to work too soon, and his wound had gone bad, and in the end he had died of blood-poisoning.
“That was two years ago,” said Mrs. Stedman. “And I got no damages. We've barely got along—this year's been worse than ever. It's the panic, they say. It seemed as if everything was shutting down.”
“It must be very hard on people here,” said Samuel.