The woman looked at me steadfastly for a minute, and then she rose
to her feet. Then she called out, as if she were crying fish or
strawberries:
"Mrs. Blaine!"
The female keeper of the intelligence office, and the male keeper,
and a thin clerk, and all the women in the back room, and all the
patrons in the front room, jumped up and gathered around us.
Astonished and somewhat disconcerted, I rose to my feet and
confronted the tall Irishwoman, and stood smiling in an uncertain
sort of a way, as if it were all very funny; but I couldn't see the
point. I think I must have impressed the people with the idea that
I wished I hadn't come.
"He says," exclaimed the woman, as if some other huckster were
crying fish on the other side of the street--"he says he lives in a
wash-toob."
"He's crazy!" ejaculated Mrs. Blaine, with an air that indicated
"policeman" as plainly as if she had put her thought into words.
A low murmur ran through the crowd of women, while the thin clerk
edged toward the door.
I saw there was no time to lose. I stepped back a little from the
tall savage, who was breathing like a hot-air engine in front of
me, and made my explanations to the company. I told the tale of
"Rudder Grange," and showed them how it was like to a stationary
wash-tub--at certain stages of the tide.
I was listened to with great attention. When I had finished, the
tall woman turned around and faced the assemblage.
"An' he wants a cook to make soup! In a canal-boat!" said she, and
off she marched into the back-room, followed closely by all the
other women.
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