The Girl from Sunset Ranch Part 11

By and by they went under an elevated railroad structure; the street grew more narrow and--to tell the truth--Helen thought the place appeared rather dirty and unkempt.

Then the cab was turned suddenly across the way, under another elevated structure, and into a narrow, noisy, ill-kept street.

"Can it be that Uncle Starkweather lives in this part of the town?"

thought Helen, in amazement.

She had always understood that the Starkweather mansion was in one of the oldest and most respectable parts of New York. But although _this_ might be one of the older parts of the city, to Helen's eyes it did _not_ look respectable.

The street was full of children and grown people in odd costumes. And there was a babel of voices that certainly were not English.

They shot across another narrow street--then another. And then the cab stopped beside the curb near a corner gaslight.

"Surely this is not Madison?" demanded Helen, of the driver, as her door was opened.

"There's the name, Miss," said the man, pointing to the street light.

Helen looked. She really _did_ see "MADISON" in blue letters on the sign.

"And is this the number?" she asked again, looking at the three-story, shabby house before which the cab had stopped.

"Yes, Miss. Don't you see it on the fanlight?"

The dull light in the hall of the house was sufficient to reveal to her the number painted on the gla.s.s above the door. It was an old, old house, with grimy panes in the windows, and more dull lights behind the shades drawn down over them. But there really could be no mistake, Helen thought.

The number over the door and the name on the lamp-post rea.s.sured her.

She stepped out of the cab, her bag in her hand.

"See if your folks are here, Miss," said the driver, "before I take off the trunk."

Helen crossed the walk, clinging to her precious bag. She was not a little disturbed by this strange situation. These streets about here were the commonest of the common! And she was carrying a large sum of money, quite unprotected.

When she mounted the steps and touched the door, it opened. A bustle of sound came from the house; yet it was not the kind of bustle that she had expected to hear in her uncle's home.

There were the crying of children, the shrieking of a woman's angry voice--another singing--language in guttural tones which she could not understand--heavy boots tramping upon the bare boards overhead.

This lower hall was unfurnished. Indeed, it was a most unlovely place as far as Helen could see by the light of a single flaring gas jet.

"What kind of a place have I got into?" murmured the Western girl, staring about in disgust and horror, and clinging tightly to the locked bag.

CHAPTER VIII

THE WELCOME

Helen would have faced almost any peril of the range--wolves, a bear even, a stampede, flood, or fire--with more confidence than she felt at this moment.

She had some idea of how city people lived, having been to school in Denver. It seemed impossible that Uncle Starkweather and his family could reside in such a place as this. And yet the street and number were correct. Surely, the taxicab driver must know his way about the city!

From behind the door on her right came the rattle of dishes and voices.

Putting her courage to the test, Helen rapped on the door. But she had to repeat the summons before she was heard.

Then she heard a shuffling step approach the door, it was unlocked, and a gray old woman, with a huge horsehair wig upon her head, peered out at her.

"Vot you vant?" this apparition asked, her black eyes growing round in wonder at the appearance of the girl and her bag. "Ve puys noddings; ve sells noddings. Vot you vant--eh?"

"I am looking for my Uncle Starkweather," said Helen, doubtfully.

"Vor your ungle?" repeated the old woman.

"Mr. Starkweather. Does he live in this house?"

"'S'arkwesser'? I neffer heard," said the old woman, shaking her huge head. "Abramovitch lifs here, and Abelosky, and Seldt, and--and Goronsky.

You sure you G.o.d de name ride, Miss?"

"Quite sure," replied the puzzled Helen.

"Meppe ubstairs," said the woman, eyeing Helen curiously. "Vot you G.o.d in de pag, lady?"

To tell the truth this query rather frightened the girl. She did not reply to the question, but started half-blindly for the stairs, clinging to the bag with both hands.

Suddenly a door banged above and a quick and light step began to descend the upper flight. Helen halted and looked expectantly upward. The approaching step was that of a young person.

In a moment a girl appeared, descending the stairs like a young whirlwind.

She was a vigorous, red-cheeked girl, with dark complexion, a prominent nose, flas.h.i.+ng black eyes, and plump, st.u.r.dy arms bared to her dimpled elbows. She saw Helen there in the hall and stopped, questioningly. The old woman said something to the newcomer in what Helen supposed must be Yiddish, and banged shut her own door.

"Whaddeyer want, Miss?" asked the dark girl, coming nearer to Helen and smiling, showing two rows of perfect teeth. "Got lost?"

"I don't know but what I have," admitted the girl from the West.

"Chee! You're a greenie, too; ain't you?"

"I reckon so," replied Helen, smiling in return. "At least, I've just arrived in town."

The girl had now opened the door and looked out. "Look at this, now!" she exclaimed. "Did you come in that taxi?"

"Yes," admitted Helen.

"Chee! you're some swell; aren't you?" said the other. "We don't have them things stopping at the house every day."

"I am looking for my uncle, Mr. Willets Starkweather."

"That's no Jewish name. I don't believe he lives in this house," said the black-eyed girl, curiously.

"But, this is the number--I saw it," said Helen, faintly. "And it's Madison Avenue; isn't it? I saw the name on the corner lamp-post."

"_Madison Avenyer?_" gasped the other girl.