m git out'n dis business an'

little cuddy behind the main saloon called the chambermaid's cabin.
The

chambermaid's cabin was filled with
the perpetual odor of hot soap- suds, soiled laundry, and the broader
smell of steam and the boat's machinery. The little place trembled
night and day, for the steamer's engines were just beneath them, and
immediately behind them thundered the great
stern-wheel of the packet. A
single square window in the end of the chambermaid's cabin looked
out on the wheel, but at all times, except when the wind was blowing
from just the right quarter,

this window
was deluged with a veritable Niagara of water. The continual shake of
the cabin, the creak of the rudder-beam working to and fro,

the watery thunder of the wheel,
and the solemn rumble of the engines

made conversation impossible until the travelers grew accustomed

to the noises. Still, Cissie found it pleasant. She liked to sit and
look out into the main saloon, with its interminable gilded scrolls
extending away up the long cabin,

a suave perspective. She liked to watch the white passengers dine--the
white napery, the bouquets, the endless tables all filled with diners;
some swathed in napkins from chin
to waistband, others less
completely protected. It gave

Cissie a certain tang of triumph to smile at the swathed ones and to
think that she knew better than that. At night a negro string-band
played for the white excursionists to dance, and Cissie would sit, with
glowing eyes, clenching Peter's hand, every
fiber of her asway to the music, and it see