Aunt Jane's Nieces in The Red Cross
Patsy asked the boy:
"Can you lead us to the man who gave you this paper?"
"Oui, mamselle."
"Then hurry, and you shall have five centimes more."
The injunction was unnecessary, for the urchin made them hasten to keep up with him. He made many turns and twists through narrow alleys and back streets until finally he brought them to a row of cheap, plastered huts built against the old city wall. There was no mistaking the place, for in the doorway of one of the poorest dwellings stood Clarette, her ample figure fairly filling the opening, her hands planted firmly on her broad hips.
"Good evening," said Patsy pleasantly. "Is Maurie within?"
"Henri is within," answered Clarette with a fierce scowl, "and he is going to stay within."
"But we have need of his services," said Ajo sternly, "and the man is in our employ and under contract to obey us."
"I also need his services," retorted Clarette, "and I made a contract with him before you did, as my marriage papers will prove."
The little boy and girl had now crowded into the doorway on either side of their mother, clinging to her skirts while they "made faces" at the Americans. Clarette turned to drive the children away and in the act allowed Patsy and Ajo to glance past her into the hut.
There stood little Maurie, sleeves rolled above his elbows, bending over a battered dishpan where he was washing a mess of cracked and broken pottery. He met their gaze with a despairing countenance and a gesture of appeal that scattered a spray of suds from big wet fingers. Next moment Clarette had filled the doorway again.
"You may as well go away," said the woman harshly.
Patsy stood irresolute.
"Have you money to pay the rent and to provide food and clothing?" she presently asked.
"I have found a few francs in Henri's pockets," was the surly reply.
"And when they are gone?"
Clarette gave a shrug.
"When they are gone we shall not starve," she said. "There is plenty of charity for the Belgians these days. One has but to ask, and someone gives.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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