That was another thing, Grandmother Majauszkiene interrupted herself⁠—this house was unlucky. Every family that lived in it, someone was sure to get consumption. Nobody could tell why that was; there must be something about a house, or the way it was built⁠—some folks said it was because the building had been begun in the dark of the moon. There were dozens of houses that way in Packingtown. Sometimes there would be a particular room that you could point out⁠—if anybody slept in that room he was just as good as dead. With this house it had been the Irish first; and then a Bohemian family had lost a child of it⁠—though, to be sure, that was uncertain, since it was hard to tell what was the matter with children who worked in the yards. In those days there had been no law about the age of children⁠—the packers had worked all but the babies. At this remark the family looked puzzled, and Grandmother Majauszkiene again had to make an explanation⁠—that it was against the law for children to work before they were sixteen. What was the sense of that? they asked. They had been thinking of letting little Stanislovas go to work. Well, there was no need to worry, Grandmother Majauszkiene said⁠—the law made no difference except that it forced people to lie about the ages of their children.