"I'm going to pack up," said he."I've found a place where I'll be treated right." He looked haughtily at Susan."And the daughter's a good looker, too.She's got some weight on her.She ain't like a washed out string."Etta understood at once."What a low-down thing you are!" she cried."Just like the rest of these filthy tenement house animals.I thought _you_ had some pride.""Oh, shut up!" bawled Ashbel."You're not such a much.What're we, anyhow, to put on airs? We're as common as dirt--yes, and that sniffy lady friend of yours, too.Where'd she come from, anyhow? Some dung pile, I'll bet."He went into his room, reappeared with his few belongings done into a bundle."So long," said he, stalking toward the hall door.
Etta burst into tears, caught him by the arm."You ain't goin', are you, Ashy?" cried she.
"Bet your life.Let me loose." And he shook her off."I'm not goin' to be saddled with two women that ain't got no gratitude.""My God, Lorna!" wailed Etta."Talk to him.Make him stay."Susan shook her head, went to the window and gazed into the snowy dreary prospect of tenement house yards.Ashbel, who had been hesitating through hope, vented a jeering laugh."Ain't she the insultin'est, airiest lady!" sneered he."Well, so long.""But, Ashy, you haven't paid for last week yet," pleaded Etta, clinging to his arm.
"You kin have my share of the furniture for that.""The furniture! Oh, my God!" shrieked Etta, releasing him to throw out her arms in despair."How'll we pay for the furniture if you go?""Ask your high and mighty lady friend," said her brother.And he opened the door, passed into the hall, slammed it behind him.
Susan waited a moment for Etta to speak, then turned to see what she was doing.She had dropped into one of the flimsy chairs, was staring into vacancy.
"We'll have to give up these rooms right away," said Susan.
Etta roused herself, looked at her friend.And Susan saw what Etta had not the courage to express--that she blamed her for not having "made the best of it" and kept Ashbel.And Susan was by no means sure that the reproach in Etta's eyes and heart were not justified."I couldn't do it, Etta," she said with a faint suggestion of apology.
"Men are that way," said Etta sullenly.
"Oh, I don't blame him," protested Susan."I understand.But--Ican't do it, Etta--I simply can't!"
"No," said Etta."You couldn't.I could, but you couldn't.I'm not as far down as Ashbel.I'm betwixt and between; so I can understand you both.""You go and make up with him and let me look after myself.I'll get along."Etta shook her head."No," said she without any show of sentiment, but like one stating an unalterable fact."I've got to stay on with you.I can't live without you.I don't want to go down.I want to go up.""Up!" Susan smiled bitterly.
Silence fell between them, and Susan planned for the new conditions.She did not speak until Etta said, "What ever will we do?""We've got to give up the furniture.Thank goodness, we've paid only two-fifty on it.""Yes, _it's_ got to go," said Etta.
"And we've got to pay Mrs.Quinlan the six we owe her and get out tonight.We'll go up to the top floor--up to Mrs.Cassatt.
She takes sleepers.Then--we'll see."
An hour later they had moved; for Mrs.Quinlan was able to find two lodgers to take the rooms at once.They were established with Mrs.Cassatt, had a foul and foul-smelling bed and one-half of her back room; the other half barely contained two even dirtier and more malodorous cots, in one of which slept Mrs.
Cassatt's sixteen-year-old daughter Kate, in the other her fourteen-year-old son Dan.For these new quarters and the right to cook their food on the Cassatt stove the girls agreed to pay three dollars and a half a week--which left them three dollars and a half a week for food and clothing--and for recreation and for the exercise of the virtue of thrift which the comfortable so assiduously urge upon the poor.
