Marlowe Amy Bell - The Girl from Sunset Ranch: or, Alone in a Great City стр 11.

Sure, Miss. Jump right in.

How much will it be?

Trunk, Miss?

Yes. Here is the check.

The chauffeur got out of his seat quickly and took the check.

Its so much a mile. The little clock tells you the fare, he said, pleasantly.

All right, replied Helen. You get the trunk, and she stepped into the vehicle.

In a few moments he was back with the trunk and secured it on the roof of his cab. Then he reached in and tucked a cloth around his passenger, although the evening was not cold, and got in under the wheel. In another moment the taxicab rolled out from under the roofed concourse.

Helen had never ridden in any vehicle that went so smoothly and so fast. It shot right downtown, mile after mile; but Helen was so interested in the sights she saw from the window of the cab that she did not worry about the time that elapsed.

By and by they went under an elevated railroad structure; the street grew more narrow and to tell the truth Helen thought the place appeared rather dirty and unkempt.

Then the cab was turned suddenly across the way, under another elevated structure, and into a narrow, noisy, ill-kept street.

Can it be that Uncle Starkweather lives in this part of the town? thought Helen, in amazement.

She had always understood that the Starkweather mansion was in one of the oldest and most respectable parts of New York. But although this might be one of the older parts of the city, to Helens eyes it did not look respectable.

The street was full of children and grown people in odd costumes. And there was a babel of voices that certainly were not English.

They shot across another narrow street then another. And then the cab stopped beside the curb near a corner gaslight.

Surely this is not Madison? demanded Helen, of the driver, as her door was opened.

Theres the name, Miss, said the man, pointing to the street light.

Helen looked. She really did see MADISON in blue letters on the sign.

And is this the number? she asked again, looking at the three-story, shabby house before which the cab had stopped.

Yes, Miss. Dont 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 uncles home.

There were the crying of children, the shrieking of a womans 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?

Sarkwesser? 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 dont know but what I have, admitted the girl from the West.

Chee! Youre a greenie, too; aint you?

I reckon so, replied Helen, smiling in return. At least, Ive 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! youre some swell; arent you? said the other. We dont have them things stopping at the house every day.

I am looking for my uncle, Mr. Willets Starkweather.

Thats no Jewish name. I dont believe he lives in this house, said the black-eyed girl, curiously.

But, this is the number I saw it, said Helen, faintly. And its Madison Avenue; isnt it? I saw the name on the corner lamp-post.

Madison Avenyer? gasped the other girl.

Yes.

Yer kiddin; aint yer? demanded the stranger.

Why What do you mean?

This aint Madison Avenyer, said the black-eyed girl, with a loud laugh. Aint you the greenie? Why, this is Madison Street!

Oh, then, theres a difference? cried Helen, much relieved. I didnt get to Uncle Starkweathers, then?

Not if he lives on Madison Avenyer, said her new friend. Whats his number? I got a cousin that married a man in Harlem. She lives on Madison Avenyer; but its 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.