“For shame!” cried her mother, laughing. “Do you dare admit a boy is smarter than a girl, Nan?”
“Not smarter. Only better able to do any kind of work, I guess. They wouldn't let me work in the file shop, or drive a grocery wagon.”
“Goodness! Listen to the child!” gasped Mrs. Sherwood. “I should hope not! Why, honey, is your mind running continually on such dreadful things? I am afraid your father and I allow you to hear us talk too frequently about family matters. You must not assume the family's burdens at your age.”
There was that trend to Nan Sherwood's character, however. With all her blithesomeness and high spirits she was inclined to be serious in thought.
This conversation occurred several days after the evening when, on their way home from school, Nan and her school chum, Bess Harley, had read the yellow poster at the gate of the Atwater Mills.
The district surrounding the mills, in which most of the hands lived, had put on an aspect of mourning. Some of the workmen and their families had already packed up and gone. Most of the houses occupied by the hands were owned by the Atwater Company, and if the poor people remained till January 15th, the wages due them then would be eaten up by the rent of the tenements.
So they were wise to leave when they could. Many who remained would be a burden upon the taxpayers of Tillbury before the winter was over.
Nan and her folks were not in such a sad situation as the laborers, of course. Mr. Sherwood had a small sum in bank. He had, too, a certain standing in the community and a line of credit at the stores that he might have used.
Debt, however, save that upon their house, he had fought to keep out of all his married life. That his equity in the Amity Street cottage was so small was not his fault; but he owed not any man.
“Now we must go fishing,” Mrs. Sherwood said, in her sprightly way, when the little family really discussed the unfortunate situation after the announcement of the shut-down of the mills was made public.
“Goodness, Momsey! What a reckless creature you are,” laughed Mr. Sherwood. “Waste our precious time in such employment, and in the dead of winter, too?”
“Now, Papa Sherwood, I don't mean that kind of fishing at all!” cried the little woman gaily. “We are going to fish for employment for you, perhaps for a new home.”