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Updated: October 11, 2026
The first item on my list "Board and room, good neighborhood, $3.00" took me south across Fourteenth Street, choked and congested with the morning traffic. The pavements were filled with hurrying crowds factory-hands, mill-girls, mechanics the vanguard of the great labor army. I hunted for Mrs. McGinniss's residence in a street which pays little attention to the formality of numbers.
Wedged between a paper-box factory and a blacksmith's shop I found Mrs. McGinniss's number. It was a five-story red-brick tenement, like all the others that rise above the stoop-line of this poverty-stricken street. A soiled scrap of paper pasted beneath the button informed possible visitors that Mrs.
Their mother, in curl-papers, gave explicit directions for my guidance upward. "Is this where Mrs. McGinniss lives?" I inquired of the dropsical slattern who responded to my rap. "I'm her." Mrs. McGinniss's manner was aggressive.
Cunningham's accommodations at four dollars per week were beyond my purse, however; but, as she was willing to talk all day, my exit was made with difficulty. The remainder of that day and a good part of the days that followed were spent in interviewing all manner of landladies, most of whom, like Mrs. McGinniss's bell, were disordered physically or mentally.