Much elated Christie rushed home, selected a bag of necessary articles, bundled the rest of her possessions into an empty closet (lent her rent-free owing to a profusion of cockroaches), paid up her board, and at two o’clock introduced herself to Hepsey Johnson, her fellow servant.
Hepsey was a tall, gaunt woman, bearing the tragedy of her race written in her face, with its melancholy eyes, subdued expression, and the pathetic patience of a wronged dumb animal. She received Christie with an air of resignation, and speedily bewildered her with an account of the duties she would be expected to perform.
A long and careful drill enabled Christie to set the table with but few mistakes, and to retain a tolerably clear recollection of the order of performances. She had just assumed her badge of servitude, as she called the white apron, when the bell rang violently and Hepsey, who was hurrying away to “dish up,” said:
“It’s de marster. You has to answer de bell, honey, and he likes it done bery spry.”
Christie ran and admitted an impetuous, stout gentleman, who appeared to be incensed against the elements, for he burst in as if blown, shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said all in one breath:
“You’re the new girl, are you? Well, take my umbrella and pull off my rubbers.”
Mr. Stuart was struggling with his gloves, and, quite unconscious of the astonishment of his new maid, impatiently repeated his request.
“Take this wet thing away, and pull off my overshoes. Don’t you see it’s raining like the very deuce!”
Christie folded her lips together in a peculiar manner as she knelt down and removed a pair of muddy overshoes, took the dripping umbrella, and was walking away with her agreeable burden when Mr. Stuart gave her another shock by calling over the banister:
“I’m going out again; so clean those rubbers, and see that the boots I sent down this morning are in order.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Christie meekly, and immediately afterward startled Hepsey by casting overshoes and umbrella upon the kitchen floor, and indignantly demanding:
“Am I expected to be a boot-jack to that man?”
“Yes, chile. Katy did, and de work ain’t hard when you gits used to it.”
“It isn’t the work; it’s the degradation; and I won’t submit to it.”