“Oh, let’s go out!” Susan followed her into a kitchen as spotless as the rest of the house, and far more attractive.  The floor was cream-white, the woodwork and the tables white, and immaculate blue saucepans hung above an immaculate sink.

Three babies, the oldest five years old, were eating their supper in the evening sunshine, and now fixed their solemn blue eyes upon the guest.  Susan thought they were the cleanest babies she had ever seen; through their flaxen mops she could see their clean little heads, their play-dresses were protected by checked gingham aprons worked in cross-stitch designs.  Marie and Mina and Ernie were kissed in turn, after their mother had wiped their rosy little faces with a damp cloth.

“I am baby-mad!” said Susan, sitting down with the baby in her lap.  “A strike is pretty hard, when you have these to think of, isn’t it?” she asked sympathetically.

“Yes, we don’t wish that we should move,” Mrs. Rassette agreed placidly, “We have been here now four years, and next year it is our hope that we go to our ranch.”

“Oh, have you a ranch?” asked Susan.

“We are buying a little ranch, in the Santa Clara valley,” the other woman said, drawing three bubbling Saucepans forward on her shining little range.  “We have an orchard there, and there is a town nearby where Joe shall have a shop of his own.  And there is a good school!  But until my Marie is seven, we think we shall stay here.  So I hope the strike will stop.  My husband can always get work in Los Angeles, but it is so far to move, if we must come back next year!”

Susan watched her, serenely beginning to prepare the smallest girl for bed; the helpful Marie trotting to and fro with nightgowns and slippers.  All the while the sound of men’s voices had been rising and falling steadily in an upstairs room.  Presently they heard the scraping of chairs on a bare floor, and a door slammed.

Billy Oliver put his head into the kitchen.  He looked tired, but smiled when he saw Susan with the sleepy baby in her lap.

“Hello, Sue, that your oldest?  Come on, woman, the Cudahys expect us to dinner, and we’ve not got much time!”

Susan kissed the baby, and walked with him to the end of the block, and straight through the open door of the Cudahy cottage, and into the kitchen.  Here they found Mrs. Cudahy, dashing through preparations for a meal whose lavishness startled Susan.  Bottles of milk and bottles of cream stood on the table, Susan fell to stripping ears of corn; there were pop-overs in the oven; Mrs. Cudahy was frying chickens at the stove.  Enough to feed the Carroll family, under their mother’s exquisite management, for a week!

There was no management here.  A small, freckled and grinning boy known as “Maggie’s Tim” came breathless from the grocery with a great bottle of fancy pickles; Billy brought up beer from the cellar; Clem Cudahy cut a thick slice of butter from a two-pound square, and helped it into the serving-dish with a pudgy thumb.  A large fruit pie and soda crackers were put on the table with the main course, when they sat down, hungry and talkative.