and Willie Jones retreated a few steps in case of personal
violence. "So I'm like any old hired girl, am I? I'm only one of them
good-for-nuthin' tramps that go traipsin' about from house to house and
never keep a place for more than two weeks, am I? I'm a dirty, careless,
ignur'nt hussy that's out all night and sleepy and lazy all day, am I?
In other words, I'm a hired girl! Well, it's just what Tom's been
tellin' me all along, and I didn't believe him. 'Nonsense,' says he,
'they don't care nuthin' for you. To them yir only a hired girl,' says
he. 'Now come over to my place and I'll make you the housekeeper,' says
he, 'and all you'll have to do is give your orders to the servants.' And
every time I says to Tom, 'No, Tom,' I says, 'I'm not ready yet. I've
been with these children since before they was born and I can't leave
'em yet. But thank you just the same,' I says. And Tom says, 'Effie, yir
a born fool! What do you think them children care for you?' he says.
'Only what they can get out of you,' he says. And," concluded Effie, her
voice again choked with tears, "I am a fool and Tom's right. They don't
care nuthin' for me and I'm only the hired girl!"

"Who's Tom, I'd like to know?" Willie Jones demanded offensively.

"Who's Tom?" echoed Effie. It was plain that insult was being added to
injury. "Why, Tom, me young friend, is Thomas McGinniss, Conthractor
_and_ Builder, that built the house yir living in and every house on
your street. And it's ten to one, me young gent, that yir own dad is
still payin' his monthly installments to Tom McGinniss, brother of Effie
the Hired Girl."

Effie turned haughtily away, then paused to add: "If either of yez ever
again have anything to say to Effie, when ye ring Mr. Thomas McGinniss's
doorbell, ye had better mind yir manners and ask for Miss McGinniss."

Effie slammed the kitchen door and Willie Jones showed how deeply
impressed he was by putting his thumb on the end of his nose and
wiggling his fingers in a manner that Margery had often been told was
highly improper.

"Well, come on," he said briskly. "It's time for us to be moving or we
never will get two quarts picked."

So off they started, a good half hour's tramp in the sun. The
blackberry patch was in a far unused corner of the graveyard, adjoining
a plot of unconsecrated ground where, as Willie and Margery had often
heard, only murderers were buried. There was, of course, the usual _No
Trespassing_ sign to meet and