Children swarmed everywhere this afternoon; heavy, dirty-faced babies sat in the doorways, women talked and laughed over the low dividing fences.  Gates hung awry, and baby carriages and garbage tins obstructed the bare, trampled spaces that might have been little gardens.

Up and down the straight narrow streets, and loitering everywhere, were idle, restless men.  A few were amusing babies, or joining in the idle chatter of the women, but for the most part they were silent, or talking in low tones among themselves.

“Strikers!” Susan said to herself, with a thrill.

Over the whole curious, exotic scene the late summer sunshine streamed generously; the street was hot, the talking women fanned themselves with their aprons.

Susan, walking slowly alone, found herself attracting a good deal of attention, and was amazed to find that it frightened her a little.  She was conspicuously a newcomer, and could not but overhear the comments that some of the watching young men made as she went by.

“Say, what’s that song about ‘I’d leave my happy home for you,’ Bert?” she heard them say.  “Don’t ask me!  I’m expecting my gurl any minute!” and “Pretty good year for peaches, I hear!”

Susan had to pretend that she did not hear, but she heartily wished herself back on the car.  However, there was nothing to do but walk senselessly on, or stop and ask her way.  She began to look furtively about for a friendly face, and finally stopped beside a dooryard where a slim pretty young woman was sitting with a young baby in her arms.

“Excuse me,” said Susan, “but do you know where Mr. William Oliver lives, now?”

The girl studied her quietly for a minute, with a closed, composed mouth.  Then she said evenly: 

“Joe!”

“Huh?” said a tall young man, lathered for shaving, who came at once to the door.

“I’m trying to find Mr. Oliver—­William Oliver,” Susan said smiling.  “I’m a sort of cousin of his, and I have a special delivery letter for him.”

Joe, who had been rapidly removing the lather from his face with a towel, took the letter and, looking at it, gravely conceded: 

“Well, maybe that’s right, too!  Sure you can see him.  We’re haying a conference up at the office tonight,” he explained, “and I have to clean up or I’d take you to him myself!  Maybe you’d do it, Lizzie?” he suggested to his wife, who was all friendliness to Susan now, and showed even a hint of respect in her friendliness.

“Well, I could nurse him later, Joe,” she agreed willingly, in reference to the baby, “or maybe Mama—­Mama!” she interrupted herself to call.

An immense, gray-haired old woman, who had been an interested auditor of this little conversation, got up from the steps of the next house, and came to the fence.  Susan liked Ellan Cudahy at first sight, and smiled at her as she explained her quest.

“And you’re Mr. Oliver’s sister, I c’n see that,” said Mrs. Cudahy shrewdly.