"There's a lot of the girls left the mill yesterday," my companion
volunteered. "They cut the wages, and some of the oldest hands got right
out. There's more than a thousand of 'em on the pay-roll, but I guess
you can make good money if you're ready to work."

We had reached Main Street, which, owing to the absence of a trolley,
had retained a certain individuality. The rivers of mud broadened out
into a sea, flanked by a double row of two-story, flat-roofed frame
stores, whose monotony was interrupted by a hotel and a town hall. My
guide stopped at a corner butcher shop. Its signboard was a couple of
mild-eyed animals hanging head downward, presented informally, with
their skins untouched, and having more the appearance of some
ill-treated pets than future beef and bouillon for the Perry population.

"Follow the boardwalk!" was the simple command I received. "Keep right
along until you come to the mill."

I presently fell in with a drayman, who was calling alternately to his
horse as it sucked in and out of the mud and to a woman on the plank
walk. She had on a hat with velvet and ostrich plumes, a black frock, a
side bag with a lace handkerchief. She was not young and she wore
spectacles; but there was something nervous about her step, a slight
tremolo as she responded to the drayman, which suggested an adventure or
the hope of it. The boardwalk, leading inevitably to the mill, announced
our common purpose and saved us an introduction.

"Going down to get work?" was the question we simultaneously asked of
each other. My companion, all eagerness, shook out the lace
handkerchief in her side bag and explained: