Vandover followed her into the little parlour.  Her sister was there, very fat, smelling somehow of tallow candles and cooked cabbage; nearby stood the little boy still eating his bread and butter.

“Look at that baseboard,” exclaimed the burnisher’s wife.  “You never touched that, I’ll bet a hat.”  Vandover did not answer; he brought in the pail of water, and soaping his scrubbing brush, went down again on his hands and knees, washing the paint on the baseboard where the burnisher’s wife indicated.  The two women stood by, looking on and directing his movements.  The little boy watched everything, never speaking a word, slowly eating his bread and butter.  Streaks of butter and bread clung to his cheeks, stretching from the corners of his mouth to his ears.

“I don’t see how you come to overlook that,” said the burnisher’s wife to Vandover.  “That’s the dirtiest baseboard I ever saw.  Oh, my!  I just can’t naturally stand dirt!  There, you didn’t get that stain off.  That’s tobacco juice, I guess.  Go back and wash that over again.”  Vandover obeyed, holding the brush in one hand, crawling back along the floor upon one palm and his two knees, a pool of soapy, dirty water very cold gathered about him, soaking in through the old “blue pants” and wetting him to the skin, but he slovened through it indifferently.  “Put a little more elbow grease to it,” continued the burnisher’s wife.  “You have to rub them spots pretty hard to get ’em out.  Now scrub all along here near the floor.  You see that streak there—­that’s all gormed up with something or other.  Bugs get in there mighty quick.  There, that’ll do, I guess.  Now, is everything else all clean?  Mister Geary said it was to be done to my satisfaction, and that you were to stay here until everything was all right.”

All at once her voice was interrupted by the prolonged roar of the factory’s whistle, blowing as though it would never stop.  It was half-past five.  In an instant the faint purring of the machinery dwindled and ceased, leaving an abrupt silence in the air.  A moment later the army of operatives began to pour out of the main entrance; men and girls and young boys, all in a great hurry, the men settling their coat collars as they ran down the steps.  The usually quiet street was crowded in an instant.

The burnisher’s wife stood on the steps of the vacant house with her sister, watching the throng debouch into the street.  All at once the sister exclaimed, “There he is!” and the other began to call, “Oscar, Oscar!” waving her hand to one of the workmen on the other side of the street.  It was her husband, the burnisher, and he came across the street, crowding his lunch basket into the pocket of his coat.  He was a thin little man with a timid air, his face white and fat and covered with a sparse unshaven stubble of a pale straw colour.  An odour as of a harness shop hung about him.  Vandover gathered up his broom and pail and soap preparing to go home.