The Girl from Sunset Ranch: or, Alone in a Great City. Marlowe Amy Bell
she asked again, looking at the three-story, shabby house before which the cab had stopped.
“Yes, Miss. Don’t you see it on the fanlight?”
The dull light in the hall of the house was sufficient to reveal to her the number painted on the glass above the door. It was an old, old house, with grimy panes in the windows, and more dull lights behind the shades drawn down over them. But there really could be no mistake, Helen thought. The number over the door and the name on the lamp-post reassured her.
She stepped out of the cab, her bag in her hand.
“See if your folks are here, Miss,” said the driver, “before I take off the trunk.”
Helen crossed the walk, clinging to her precious bag. She was not a little disturbed by this strange situation. These streets about here were the commonest of the common! And she was carrying a large sum of money, quite unprotected.
When she mounted the steps and touched the door, it opened. A bustle of sound came from the house; yet it was not the kind of bustle that she had expected to hear in her uncle’s home.
There were the crying of children, the shrieking of a woman’s angry voice – another singing – language in guttural tones which she could not understand – heavy boots tramping upon the bare boards overhead.
This lower hall was unfurnished. Indeed, it was a most unlovely place as far as Helen could see by the light of a single flaring gas jet.
“What kind of a place have I got into?” murmured the Western girl, staring about in disgust and horror, and clinging tightly to the locked bag.
CHAPTER VIII
THE WELCOME
Helen would have faced almost any peril of the range – wolves, a bear even, a stampede, flood, or fire – with more confidence than she felt at this moment.
She had some idea of how city people lived, having been to school in Denver. It seemed impossible that Uncle Starkweather and his family could reside in such a place as this. And yet the street and number were correct. Surely, the taxicab driver must know his way about the city!
From behind the door on her right came the rattle of dishes and voices. Putting her courage to the test, Helen rapped on the door. But she had to repeat the summons before she was heard.
Then she heard a shuffling step approach the door, it was unlocked, and a gray old woman, with a huge horsehair wig upon her head, peered out at her.
“Vot you vant?” this apparition asked, her black eyes growing round in wonder at the appearance of the girl and her bag. “Ve puys noddings; ve sells noddings. Vot you vant – eh?”
“I am looking for my Uncle Starkweather,” said Helen, doubtfully.
“Vor your ungle?” repeated the old woman.
“Mr. Starkweather. Does he live in this house?”
“‘S’arkwesser’? I neffer heard,” said the old woman, shaking her huge head. “Abramovitch lifs here, and Abelosky, and Seldt, and – and Goronsky. You sure you god de name ride, Miss?”
“Quite sure,” replied the puzzled Helen.
“Meppe ubstairs,” said the woman, eyeing Helen curiously. “Vot you god in de pag, lady?”
To tell the truth this query rather frightened the girl. She did not reply to the question, but started half-blindly for the stairs, clinging to the bag with both hands.
Suddenly a door banged above and a quick and light step began to descend the upper flight. Helen halted and looked expectantly upward. The approaching step was that of a young person.
In a moment a girl appeared, descending the stairs like a young whirlwind. She was a vigorous, red-cheeked girl, with dark complexion, a prominent nose, flashing black eyes, and plump, sturdy arms bared to her dimpled elbows. She saw Helen there in the hall and stopped, questioningly. The old woman said something to the newcomer in what Helen supposed must be Yiddish, and banged shut her own door.
“Whaddeyer want, Miss?” asked the dark girl, coming nearer to Helen and smiling, showing two rows of perfect teeth. “Got lost?”
“I don’t know but what I have,” admitted the girl from the West.
“Chee! You’re a greenie, too; ain’t you?”
“I reckon so,” replied Helen, smiling in return. “At least, I’ve just arrived in town.”
The girl had now opened the door and looked out. “Look at this, now!” she exclaimed. “Did you come in that taxi?”
“Yes,” admitted Helen.
“Chee! you’re some swell; aren’t you?” said the other. “We don’t have them things stopping at the house every day.”
“I am looking for my uncle, Mr. Willets Starkweather.”
“That’s no Jewish name. I don’t believe he lives in this house,” said the black-eyed girl, curiously.
“But, this is the number – I saw it,” said Helen, faintly. “And it’s Madison Avenue; isn’t it? I saw the name on the corner lamp-post.”
“Madison Avenyer?” gasped the other girl.
“Yes.”
“Yer kiddin’; ain’t yer?” demanded the stranger.
“Why – What do you mean?”
“This ain’t Madison Avenyer,” said the black-eyed girl, with a loud laugh. “Ain’t you the greenie? Why, this is Madison Street!”
“Oh, then, there’s a difference?” cried Helen, much relieved. “I didn’t get to Uncle Starkweather’s, then?”
“Not if he lives on Madison Avenyer,” said her new friend. “What’s his number? I got a cousin that married a man in Harlem. She lives on Madison Avenyer; but it’s a long ways up town.”
“Why, Uncle Starkweather has his home at the same number on Madison Avenue that is on that fanlight,” and Helen pointed over the door.
“Then he’s some swell; eh?”
“I – I guess so,” admitted Helen, doubtfully.
“D’jer jest come to town?”
“Yes.”
“And told the taxi driver to come down here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’ll take you back. I’ll take the number of the cab and scare him pretty near into a fit,” said the black-eyed girl, laughing. “Then he’s sure to take you right to your uncle’s house.”
“Oh, I’m a thousand times obliged!” cried Helen. “I am a tenderfoot; am I not?” and she laughed.
The girl looked at her curiously. “I don’t know much about tender feet. Mine never bother me,” she said. “But I could see right away that you didn’t belong in this part of town.”
“Well, you’ve been real kind to me,” Helen said. “I hope I’ll see you again.”
“Not likely,” said the other, shaking her head.
“Why not?”
“And you livin’ on Madison Avenyer, and me on Madison Street?”
“I can come down to see you,” said Helen, frankly. “My name is Helen Morrell. What’s yours?”
“Sadie Goronsky. You see, I’m a Russian,” and she smiled. “You wouldn’t know it by the way I talk; would you? I learned English over there. But some folks in Russia don’t care to mix much with our people.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Helen. “But I know when I like a person. And I’ve got reason for liking you.”
“That goes – double,” returned the other, warmly. “I bet you come from