Mr. Porter, who was on his knees at the time, rose slowly to his full height, and, with a superb gesture, emptied the bucket, which also contained a scrubbing-brush and lump of soap, into the back-yard. Then he set off down the street in quest of a staff. He found it in the person of Maudie Stevens, aged fourteen, who lived a few doors lower down. Fresh from school the week before, she cheerfully undertook to do the housework and cooking, and to act as nursemaid in her spare time. Her father, on his part, cheerfully undertook to take care of her wages for her, the first week’s, payable in advance, being banked the same evening at the Lord Nelson. It was another mouth to feed, but the strike-pay was coming in very well, and Mr. Porter, relieved from his unmanly tasks, walked the streets a free man. Beds were made without his interference, meals were ready (roughly) at the appointed hour, and for the first time since the strike he experienced satisfaction in finding fault with the cook. The children’s content was not so great, Maudie possessing a faith in the virtues of soap and water that they made no attempt to share. They were greatly relieved when their mother returned home after spending a couple of days with Aunt Jane. “What’s all this?” she demanded, as she entered the kitchen, followed by a lady-friend. “What’s all what?” inquired Mr. Porter, who was sitting at dinner with the family. “That,” said his wife, pointing at the cook-general. Mr. Porter put down his knife and fork. “Got ’er in to help,” he replied, uneasily. “Do you hear that?” demanded his wife, turning to her friend, Mrs. Gorman. “Oh, these masters!” “Ah!” said her friend, vaguely. “A strike-breaker!” said Mrs. Porter, rolling her eyes. “Shame!” said Mrs. Gorman, beginning to understand. “Coming after my job, and taking the bread out of my mouth,” continued Mrs. Porter, fluently. “Underselling me too, I’ll be bound. That’s what comes of not having pickets.” “Unskilled labour,” said Mrs. Gorman, tightening her lips and shaking her head. “A scab!” cried Mrs. Porter, wildly. “A scab!” “Put her out,” counselled her friend. “Put her out!” repeated Mrs. Porter, in a terrible voice. “Put her out! I’ll tear her limb from limb! I’ll put her in the copper and boil her!”