"Step zis
vay."
We mounted a dirty stair, and she threw open a door with a flourish
meant to be impressive.
"Zese are ze rooms, monsieur; zey are ver' fine."
I looked around them with simulated interest, smothering my disgust as
well as I could.
"How long have they been vacant?" I asked.
"Since only two days, monsieur; as you see, zey are ver' fine rooms."
That settled it. If they had been vacant only two days, I had no
further interest in them, and with some excuse I made my way out, glad
to escape from that fetid atmosphere of garlic and onions. So I went
from house to house; stumbling over dirty children; climbing grimy
stairs, catching glimpses of crowded sweat-shops; peering into all
sorts of holes called rooms by courtesy; inhaling a hundred stenches
in as many minutes; gaining an insight that sickened me into the
squalid life of the quarter. Sometimes I began to hope that at last I
was on the right track; but further inquiry would prove my mistake. So
the morning passed, and the afternoon. I had covered two blocks to no
purpose, and at last I turned eastward to Broadway, and took a car
downtown to the office. My assistants had reported again--they had met
with no better success than I. Mr. Graham noticed my dejected
appearance, and spoke a word of comfort.
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