Edith and John: A Story of PittsburghFarquhar, Franklin Smith
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Edith and John: A Story of Pittsburgh
Farquhar, Franklin Smith
Pittsburgh (Pa.) -- Fiction
Then she came to a door where a cook answered her knock. He wore a
white, brimless cap, and a big white apron covered up the rotundity of
his front clear up to his chin and almost to his feet. He was large and
fat and filled up almost the entire space of the opened door. He was
red-faced and genial, and had a merry twinkle in his blue eyes. He
reminded Star of a big German butcher whom she knew in the marts of
Birmingham.
"Well!" he exclaimed, seeing the visitor to his quarters was a lady.
"I came to see if you want a cook," said Star, now feeling more composed
since some one deigned to talk with her.
"A cook!" he exclaimed, grinning.
"A cook, yes, sir," she answered.
"We employ none but men cooks here, lady," he replied, and was about to
close the door.
"Surely, I have made a mistake," thought Star, in this moment of her
rebuff, as she took it. Her heart was failing her. She felt
disconsolate. She was about to turn and flee--back to her own elements,
back to her own humble surroundings; to all the shortcomings of her
home, to her stupid mother, to her unfortunate brothers and sisters, to
her wretched existence again, and there take up her burdens as she
before had borne them.
The fat cook noticed the pallor that had come over Star's face, as the
consequence of his remark, and instead of closing the door in her face,
as he intended, he opened it wider, and said:
"You must be in the wrong place, Miss."
"No sir; I am not," she answered. "This is the address that was given
me, where a cook was wanted--or I might be mistaken--it might be a maid
is wanted for a young lady."
"Very doubtful," said the cook, scratching his head.
"None wanted?" she asked.
"To get a place here you must have recommendations," he answered.
"I have never worked away from home," she replied, "except for a few
months. I have never been a maid to a lady. But--but--I want to learn."
"Wait," said the cook, quickly, as if he had thought of something that
had been commended to his keeping and it had slipped his memory, as he
retreated, and closed the door.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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