The night must not find me homeless, houseless. I went first to a directory and found the address of the Young Women's Christian Association: a room upstairs in a building on one of the principal streets. Here two women faced me as I made my appeal, and I saw at once displayed the sentiments of kindness thenceforth to greet me throughout my first experience--qualities of exquisite sympathy, rare hospitality and human interest.
"I am looking for work. I want to get a room in a safe place for the night."
I had not for a moment supposed that anything in my attire of simple decorous work-clothes could awaken pity. Yet pity it was and nothing less in the older woman's face.
The simple fact that I was undoubtedly to make my own living and my own way in the hard hand-to-hand struggle in the shops aroused her sympathy.
She said earnestly: "You must not go anywhere to sleep that you don't know about, child."
She wrote an address for me on a slip of paper.
"Go there; I know the woman. If she can't take you, why, come back here. I'll take you to my own house. I won't have you sleep in a strange town just _anywheres_! You might get into trouble."
She was not a matron; she was not even one of the staff of managers or directors. She was only a woman who had come in to ask some question, receive some information; and thus in marvelous friendliness she turned and outstretched her hand--I was a stranger and this was her welcome.
I had proved a point at the first step; help had been extended. If I myself failed to find shelter I could go to her for protection. I intended to find my lodging place if possible without any reference or any aid.
Out of the town proper in a quiet side street I saw a little wooden tenement set back from the road.
"Furnished Room to Rent," read the sign in the window. A sweet-faced woman responded to the bell I had rung. One glance at me and she said:
At the compliment I was ill-pleased and told her I was looking for a _cheap_ room: I had come to Lynn to work. Oh! that was all right. That was the kind of people she received.
I followed her into the house. I must excuse her broken English. She was French. Ah! was she? That made my way easier. I told her I was from Paris and a stranger in this part of the country, and thenceforth our understanding was complete. In 28 Viger Street we spoke French always.