The tea-kettle had been
crowded off the stove by the pressing irons; a wash-tub full of neglected
clothes, squeezed itself into a distant corner, and the cooking utensils
had had to go climbing up the walls on hooks and nails to make way on the
shelves for sewing materials.
On one corner of the table, between two towering piles of pants, were the
remains of the last meal, black bread, potatoes, and pickled herring.
Under two swinging kerosene lamps, six women with sleeves rolled up and
necks bared, bent over whirring machines, while Mr. Lavinski knelt on the
floor tying the finished garments into huge bundles.
"Here's Nance Molloy, Pa" said Ikey, raising his voice above the noise of
the machines and tugging at his father's sleeve.
Mr. Lavinski pushed his derby hat further back on his perspiring brow,
and looked up. He had a dark, sharp face, and alert black eyes, exactly
like Ikey's, and a black beard with two locks of black hair trained
down in front of his ears to meet it. Without pausing in his work he
sized Nance up.
"I von't take childern anny more. I tried it many times already. De
inspector git me into troubles. It don't pay."
"But I'll dodge the inspectors," urged Nance.
"You know how to sew, eh?"
"No; but you kin learn me. Please, Mr. Lavinski, Ikey said you would."
Mr. Lavinski bestowed a doting glance on his son.
"My Ikey said so, did he? He thinks he own me, that boy. I send him to
high school. I send him to Hebrew class at the synagogue at night.
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