74

A wash lady is something I prefer not to be, above all professions.

But last Monday it was arranged for me.

“Togo,” dictate Mrs. H. Griddle, stopping her soprano sifficiently to speak, “you will kindly give ade to Hon. Maggie today in clothes wash ceremony.”

“O thank you not to do so!” I declare with pathos.

“Why so?” she snagger with Mary Garden expression.

“This Hon. Maggie treat me without chivalry. How could I be assistant scrub beside her haughty actions?” I resolve.

“Either do so or deprive yourself of this job,” she holla, departing off in high Key of C.

I find Hon. Maggie lady in laundry preparing to suds. Redness appear from her hair and arms while she look to me with cross expression peculiar to a eagle watching an angly-worm. Then she lift wash-boiler from stove showing energy like Sandow juggling automobiles.

“Jap,” she reproach.

“Yes, Sir!” I pronounce.

“Was you sent here to look beautiful or to be helpful?” she ask out.

75

75

“Not sure—Mrs. Boss did not instruct me which to be,” I report.

“I will instruct you!” she growell like a lady menagerie. “Become busy as soonly as possible. You will find a clothes-ringer annexed to yonder tub. Attach yourself to the handle and ring the cloths earnestly until I tell you quit.”

She point to one slight machinery resembling a hand organ with pianola rolls. I wind this instrument continuously. Nothing evolve.

“O Mrs. Madam, I cannot hear the bell!” I suggest.

“Which bell please?” she 

 Prev. P 46/103 next