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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/352-h.zip b/352-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b1421a --- /dev/null +++ b/352-h.zip diff --git a/352-h/352-h.htm b/352-h/352-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..86727fb --- /dev/null +++ b/352-h/352-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7384 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +Buttered Side Down +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 5%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: medium; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.salutation {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.closing {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.index {font-size: small ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.dedication {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 15%; + text-align: justify } + +P.published {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 15% } + +P.quote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.report {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.report2 {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Buttered Side Down, by Edna Ferber + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Buttered Side Down + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Release Date: March 28, 2008 [EBook #352] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUTTERED SIDE DOWN *** + + + + + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +BUTTERED SIDE DOWN +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +STORIES +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +EDNA FERBER +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +MARCH, 1912 +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FOREWORD +</H3> + +<BR> + +<P> +"And so," the story writers used to say, "they lived happily ever after." +</P> + +<P> +Um-m-m—maybe. After the glamour had worn off, and the glass slippers +were worn out, did the Prince never find Cinderella's manner redolent of +the kitchen hearth; and was it never necessary that he remind her to be +more careful of her finger-nails and grammar? After Puss in Boots had +won wealth and a wife for his young master did not that gentleman often +fume with chagrin because the neighbors, perhaps, refused to call on the +lady of the former poor miller's son? +</P> + +<P> +It is a great risk to take with one's book-children. These stories make +no such promises. They stop just short of the phrase of the old story +writers, and end truthfully, thus: And so they lived. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +E. F. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">THE FROG AND THE PUDDLE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">THE MAN WHO CAME BACK</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">WHAT SHE WORE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">A BUSH LEAGUE HERO</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">THE KITCHEN SIDE OF THE DOOR</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">ONE OF THE OLD GIRLS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">MAYMEYS FROM CUBA</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">THE LEADING LADY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">THAT HOME-TOWN FEELING</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">THE HOMELY HEROINE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">SUN DRIED</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">WHERE THE CAR TURNS AT 18TH</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +BUTTERED SIDE DOWN +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE FROG AND THE PUDDLE +</H3> + +<P> +Any one who has ever written for the magazines (nobody could devise a +more sweeping opening; it includes the iceman who does a humorous article +on the subject of his troubles, and the neglected wife next door, who +journalizes) knows that a story the scene of which is not New York is +merely junk. Take Fifth Avenue as a framework, pad it out to five +thousand words, and there you have the ideal short story. +</P> + +<P> +Consequently I feel a certain timidity in confessing that I do not know +Fifth Avenue from Hester Street when I see it, because I've never seen +it. It has been said that from the latter to the former is a ten-year +journey, from which I have gathered that they lie some miles apart. As +for Forty-second Street, of which musical comedians carol, I know not if +it be a fashionable shopping thoroughfare or a factory district. +</P> + +<P> +A confession of this kind is not only good for the soul, but for the +editor. It saves him the trouble of turning to page two. +</P> + +<P> +This is a story of Chicago, which is a first cousin of New York, although +the two are not on chummy terms. It is a story of that part of Chicago +which lies east of Dearborn Avenue and south of Division Street, and +which may be called the Nottingham curtain district. +</P> + +<P> +In the Nottingham curtain district every front parlor window is +embellished with a "Rooms With or Without Board" sign. The curtains +themselves have mellowed from their original +department-store-basement-white to a rich, deep tone of Chicago smoke, +which has the notorious London variety beaten by several shades. Block +after block the two-story-and-basement houses stretch, all grimy and +gritty and looking sadly down upon the five square feet of mangy grass +forming the pitiful front yard of each. Now and then the monotonous line +of front stoops is broken by an outjutting basement delicatessen shop. +But not often. The Nottingham curtain district does not run heavily to +delicacies. It is stronger on creamed cabbage and bread pudding. +</P> + +<P> +Up in the third floor back at Mis' Buck's (elegant rooms $2.50 and up a +week. Gents preferred) Gertie was brushing her hair for the night. One +hundred strokes with a bristle brush. Anyone who reads the beauty column +in the newspapers knows that. There was something heroic in the sight of +Gertie brushing her hair one hundred strokes before going to bed at +night. Only a woman could understand her doing it. +</P> + +<P> +Gertie clerked downtown on State Street, in a gents' glove department. A +gents' glove department requires careful dressing on the part of its +clerks, and the manager, in selecting them, is particular about choosing +"lookers," with especial attention to figure, hair, and finger nails. +Gertie was a looker. Providence had taken care of that. But you cannot +leave your hair and finger nails to Providence. They demand coaxing with +a bristle brush and an orangewood stick. +</P> + +<P> +Now clerking, as Gertie would tell you, is fierce on the feet. And when +your feet are tired you are tired all over. Gertie's feet were tired +every night. About eight-thirty she longed to peel off her clothes, drop +them in a heap on the floor, and tumble, unbrushed, unwashed, +unmanicured, into bed. She never did it. +</P> + +<P> +Things had been particularly trying to-night. After washing out three +handkerchiefs and pasting them with practised hand over the mirror, +Gertie had taken off her shoes and discovered a hole the size of a silver +quarter in the heel of her left stocking. Gertie had a country-bred +horror of holey stockings. She darned the hole, yawning, her aching feet +pressed against the smooth, cool leg of the iron bed. That done, she had +had the colossal courage to wash her face, slap cold cream on it, and +push back the cuticle around her nails. +</P> + +<P> +Seated huddled on the side of her thin little iron bed, Gertie was +brushing her hair bravely, counting the strokes somewhere in her +sub-conscious mind and thinking busily all the while of something else. +Her brush rose, fell, swept downward, rose, fell, rhythmically. +</P> + +<P> +"Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety—— Oh, darn it! What's +the use!" cried Gertie, and hurled the brush across the room with a crack. +</P> + +<P> +She sat looking after it with wide, staring eyes until the brush blurred +in with the faded red roses on the carpet. When she found it doing that +she got up, wadded her hair viciously into a hard bun in the back instead +of braiding it carefully as usual, crossed the room (it wasn't much of a +trip), picked up the brush, and stood looking down at it, her under lip +caught between her teeth. That is the humiliating part of losing your +temper and throwing things. You have to come down to picking them up, +anyway. +</P> + +<P> +Her lip still held prisoner, Gertie tossed the brush on the bureau, +fastened her nightgown at the throat with a safety pin, turned out the +gas and crawled into bed. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps the hard bun at the back of her head kept her awake. She lay +there with her eyes wide open and sleepless, staring into the darkness. +</P> + +<P> +At midnight the Kid Next Door came in whistling, like one unused to +boarding-house rules. Gertie liked him for that. At the head of the +stairs he stopped whistling and came softly into his own third floor back +just next to Gertie's. Gertie liked him for that, too. +</P> + +<P> +The two rooms had been one in the fashionable days of the Nottingham +curtain district, long before the advent of Mis' Buck. That thrifty +lady, on coming into possession, had caused a flimsy partition to be run +up, slicing the room in twain and doubling its rental. +</P> + +<P> +Lying there Gertie could hear the Kid Next Door moving about getting +ready for bed and humming "Every Little Movement Has a Meaning of Its +Own" very lightly, under his breath. He polished his shoes briskly, and +Gertie smiled there in the darkness of her own room in sympathy. Poor +kid, he had his beauty struggles, too. +</P> + +<P> +Gertie had never seen the Kid Next Door, although he had come four months +ago. But she knew he wasn't a grouch, because he alternately whistled +and sang off-key tenor while dressing in the morning. She had also +discovered that his bed must run along the same wall against which her +bed was pushed. Gertie told herself that there was something almost +immodest about being able to hear him breathing as he slept. He had +tumbled into bed with a little grunt of weariness. +</P> + +<P> +Gertie lay there another hour, staring into the darkness. Then she began +to cry softly, lying on her face with her head between her arms. The +cold cream and the salt tears mingled and formed a slippery paste. +Gertie wept on because she couldn't help it. The longer she wept the +more difficult her sobs became, until finally they bordered on the +hysterical. They filled her lungs until they ached and reached her +throat with a force that jerked her head back. +</P> + +<P> +"Rap-rap-rap!" sounded sharply from the head of her bed. +</P> + +<P> +Gertie stopped sobbing, and her heart stopped beating. She lay tense and +still, listening. Everyone knows that spooks rap three times at the head +of one's bed. It's a regular high-sign with them. +</P> + +<P> +"Rap-rap-rap!" +</P> + +<P> +Gertie's skin became goose-flesh, and coldwater effects chased up and +down her spine. +</P> + +<P> +"What's your trouble in there?" demanded an unspooky voice so near that +Gertie jumped. "Sick?" +</P> + +<P> +It was the Kid Next Door. +</P> + +<P> +"N-no, I'm not sick," faltered Gertie, her mouth close to the wall. Just +then a belated sob that had stopped halfway when the raps began hustled +on to join its sisters. It took Gertie by surprise, and brought prompt +response from the other side of the wall. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll bet I scared you green. I didn't mean to, but, on the square, if +you're feeling sick, a little nip of brandy will set you up. Excuse my +mentioning it, girlie, but I'd do the same for my sister. I hate like +sin to hear a woman suffer like that, and, anyway, I don't know whether +you're fourteen or forty, so it's perfectly respectable. I'll get the +bottle and leave it outside your door." +</P> + +<P> +"No you don't!" answered Gertie in a hollow voice, praying meanwhile that +the woman in the room below might be sleeping. "I'm not sick, honestly +I'm not. I'm just as much obliged, and I'm dead sorry I woke you up with +my blubbering. I started out with the soft pedal on, but things got away +from me. Can you hear me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Like a phonograph. Sure you couldn't use a sip of brandy where it'd do +the most good?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then, cut out the weeps and get your beauty sleep, kid. He ain't +worth sobbing over, anyway, believe me." +</P> + +<P> +"He!" snorted Gertie indignantly. "You're cold. There never was +anything in peg-tops that could make me carry on like the heroine of the +Elsie series." +</P> + +<P> +"Lost your job?" +</P> + +<P> +"No such luck." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then, what in Sam Hill could make a woman——" +</P> + +<P> +"Lonesome!" snapped Gertie. "And the floorwalker got fresh to-day. And +I found two gray hairs to-night. And I'd give my next week's pay +envelope to hear the double click that our front gate gives back home." +</P> + +<P> +"Back home!" echoed the Kid Next Door in a dangerously loud voice. "Say, +I want to talk to you. If you'll promise you won't get sore and think +I'm fresh, I'll ask you a favor. Slip on a kimono and we'll sneak down +to the front stoop and talk it over. I'm as wide awake as a chorus girl +and twice as hungry. I've got two apples and a box of crackers. Are you +on?" +</P> + +<P> +Gertie snickered. "It isn't done in our best sets, but I'm on. I've got +a can of sardines and an orange. I'll be ready in six minutes." +</P> + +<P> +She was, too. She wiped off the cold cream and salt tears with a dry +towel, did her hair in a schoolgirl braid and tied it with a big bow, and +dressed herself in a black skirt and a baby blue dressing sacque. The +Kid Next Door was waiting outside in the hall. His gray sweater covered +a multitude of sartorial deficiencies. Gertie stared at him, and he +stared at Gertie in the sickly blue light of the boarding-house hall, and +it took her one-half of one second to discover that she liked his mouth, +and his eyes, and the way his hair was mussed. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you're only a kid!" whispered the Kid Next Door, in surprise. +</P> + +<P> +Gertie smothered a laugh. "You're not the first man that's been deceived +by a pig-tail braid and a baby blue waist. I could locate those two gray +hairs for you with my eyes shut and my feet in a sack. Come on, boy. +These Robert W. Chambers situations make me nervous." +</P> + +<P> +Many earnest young writers with a flow of adjectives and a passion for +detail have attempted to describe the quiet of a great city at night, +when a few million people within it are sleeping, or ought to be. They +work in the clang of a distant owl car, and the roar of an occasional "L" +train, and the hollow echo of the footsteps of the late passer-by. They +go elaborately into description, and are strong on the brooding hush, but +the thing has never been done satisfactorily. +</P> + +<P> +Gertie, sitting on the front stoop at two in the morning, with her orange +in one hand and the sardine can in the other, put it this way: +</P> + +<P> +"If I was to hear a cricket chirp now, I'd screech. This isn't really +quiet. It's like waiting for a cannon cracker to go off just before the +fuse is burned down. The bang isn't there yet, but you hear it a hundred +times in your mind before it happens." +</P> + +<P> +"My name's Augustus G. Eddy," announced the Kid Next Door, solemnly. +"Back home they always called me Gus. You peel that orange while I +unroll the top of this sardine can. I'm guilty of having interrupted you +in the middle of what the girls call a good cry, and I know you'll have +to get it out of your system some way. Take a bite of apple and then +wade right in and tell me what you're doing in this burg if you don't +like it." +</P> + +<P> +"This thing ought to have slow music," began Gertie. "It's pathetic. I +came to Chicago from Beloit, Wisconsin, because I thought that little +town was a lonesome hole for a vivacious creature like me. Lonesome! +Listen while I laugh a low mirthless laugh. I didn't know anything about +the three-ply, double-barreled, extra heavy brand of lonesomeness that a +big town like this can deal out. Talk about your desert wastes! They're +sociable and snug compared to this. I know three-fourths of the people +in Beloit, Wisconsin, by their first names. I've lived here six months +and I'm not on informal terms with anybody except Teddy, the landlady's +dog, and he's a trained rat-and-book-agent terrier, and not inclined to +overfriendliness. When I clerked at the Enterprise Store in Beloit the +women used to come in and ask for something we didn't carry just for an +excuse to copy the way the lace yoke effects were planned in my +shirtwaists. You ought to see the way those same shirtwaist stack up +here. Why, boy, the lingerie waists that the other girls in my +department wear make my best hand-tucked effort look like a simple +English country blouse. They're so dripping with Irish crochet and real +Val and Cluny insertions that it's a wonder the girls don't get +stoop-shouldered carrying 'em around." +</P> + +<P> +"Hold on a minute," commanded Gus. "This thing is uncanny. Our cases +dovetail like the deductions in a detective story. Kneel here at my +feet, little daughter, and I'll tell you the story of my sad young life. +I'm no child of the city streets, either. Say, I came to this town +because I thought there was a bigger field for me in Gents' Furnishings. +Joke, what?" +</P> + +<P> +But Gertie didn't smile. She gazed up at Gus, and Gus gazed down at her, +and his fingers fiddled absently with the big bow at the end of her braid. +</P> + +<P> +"And isn't there?" asked Gertie, sympathetically. +</P> + +<P> +"Girlie, I haven't saved twelve dollars since I came. I'm no tightwad, +and I don't believe in packing everything away into a white marble +mausoleum, but still a gink kind of whispers to himself that some day +he'll be furnishing up a kitchen pantry of his own." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" said Gertie. +</P> + +<P> +"And let me mention in passing," continued Gus, winding the ribbon bow +around his finger, "that in the last hour or so that whisper has been +swelling to a shout." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" said Gertie again. +</P> + +<P> +"You said it. But I couldn't buy a secondhand gas stove with what I've +saved in the last half-year here. Back home they used to think I was a +regular little village John Drew, I was so dressy. But here I look like +a yokel on circus day compared to the other fellows in the store. All +they need is a field glass strung over their shoulder to make them look +like a clothing ad in the back of a popular magazine. Say, girlie, +you've got the prettiest hair I've seen since I blew in here. Look at +that braid! Thick as a rope! That's no relation to the piles of jute +that the Flossies here stack on their heads. And shines! Like satin." +</P> + +<P> +"It ought to," said Gertrude, wearily. "I brush it a hundred strokes +every night. Sometimes I'm so beat that I fall asleep with my brush in +the air. The manager won't stand for any romping curls or hooks-and-eyes +that don't connect. It keeps me so busy being beautiful, and what the +society writers call 'well groomed,' that I don't have time to sew the +buttons on my underclothes." +</P> + +<P> +"But don't you get some amusement in the evening?" marveled Gus. "What +was the matter with you and the other girls in the store? Can't you hit +it off?" +</P> + +<P> +"Me? No. I guess I was too woodsy for them. I went out with them a +couple of times. I guess they're nice girls all right; but they've got +what you call a broader way of looking at things than I have. Living in +a little town all your life makes you narrow. These girls!—Well, maybe +I'll get educated up to their plane some day, but——" +</P> + +<P> +"No, you don't!" hissed Gus. "Not if I can help it." +</P> + +<P> +"But you can't," replied Gertie, sweetly. "My, ain't this a grand night! +Evenings like this I used to love to putter around the yard after supper, +sprinkling the grass and weeding the radishes. I'm the greatest kid to +fool around with a hose. And flowers! Say, they just grow for me. You +ought to have seen my pansies and nasturtiums last summer." +</P> + +<P> +The fingers of the Kid Next Door wandered until they found Gertie's. +They clasped them. +</P> + +<P> +"This thing just points one way, little one. It's just as plain as a +path leading up to a cozy little three-room flat up here on the North +Side somewhere. See it? With me and you married, and playing at +housekeeping in a parlor and bedroom and kitchen? And both of us going +down town to work in the morning just the same as we do now. Only not +the same, either." +</P> + +<P> +"Wake up, little boy," said Gertie, prying her fingers away from those +other detaining ones. "I'd fit into a three-room flat like a whale in a +kitchen sink. I'm going back to Beloit, Wisconsin. I've learned my +lesson all right. There's a fellow there waiting for me. I used to +think he was too slow. But say, he's got the nicest little painting and +paper-hanging business you ever saw, and making money. He's secretary of +the K. P.'s back home. They give some swell little dances during the +winter, especially for the married members. In five years we'll own our +home, with a vegetable garden in the back. I'm a little frog, and it's +me for the puddle." +</P> + +<P> +Gus stood up slowly. Gertie felt a little pang of compunction when she +saw what a boy he was. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know when I've enjoyed a talk like this. I've heard about these +dawn teas, but I never thought I'd go to one," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-night, girlie," interrupted Gus, abruptly. "It's the dreamless +couch for mine. We've got a big sale on in tan and black seconds +to-morrow." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE MAN WHO CAME BACK +</H3> + +<P> +There are two ways of doing battle against Disgrace. You may live it +down; or you may run away from it and hide. The first method is +heart-breaking, but sure. The second cannot be relied upon because of +the uncomfortable way Disgrace has of turning up at your heels just when +you think you have eluded her in the last town but one. +</P> + +<P> +Ted Terrill did not choose the first method. He had it thrust upon him. +After Ted had served his term he came back home to visit his mother's +grave, intending to take the next train out. He wore none of the prison +pallor that you read about in books, because he had been shortstop on the +penitentiary all-star baseball team, and famed for the dexterity with +which he could grab up red-hot grounders. The storied lock step and the +clipped hair effect also were missing. The superintendent of Ted's +prison had been one of the reform kind. +</P> + +<P> +You never would have picked Ted for a criminal. He had none of those +interesting phrenological bumps and depressions that usually are shown to +such frank advantage in the Bertillon photographs. Ted had been +assistant cashier in the Citizens' National Bank. In a mad moment he had +attempted a little sleight-of-hand act in which certain Citizens' +National funds were to be transformed into certain glittering shares and +back again so quickly that the examiners couldn't follow it with their +eyes. But Ted was unaccustomed to these now-you-see-it-and-now-you-don't +feats and his hand slipped. The trick dropped to the floor with an awful +clatter. +</P> + +<P> +Ted had been a lovable young kid, six feet high, and blonde, with a great +reputation as a dresser. He had the first yellow plush hat in our town. +It sat on his golden head like a halo. The women all liked Ted. Mrs. +Dankworth, the dashing widow (why will widows persist in being dashing?), +said that he was the only man in our town who knew how to wear a dress +suit. The men were forever slapping him on the back and asking him to +have a little something. +</P> + +<P> +Ted's good looks and his clever tongue and a certain charming Irish way +he had with him caused him to be taken up by the smart set. Now, if +you've never lived in a small town you will be much amused at the idea of +its boasting a smart set. Which proves your ignorance. The small town +smart set is deadly serious about its smartness. It likes to take +six-hour runs down to the city to fit a pair of shoes and hear Caruso. +Its clothes are as well made, and its scandals as crisp, and its pace as +hasty, and its golf club as dull as the clothes, and scandals, and pace, +and golf club of its city cousins. +</P> + +<P> +The hasty pace killed Ted. He tried to keep step in a set of young folks +whose fathers had made our town. And all the time his pocketbook was +yelling, "Whoa!" The young people ran largely to scarlet-upholstered +touring cars, and country-club doings, and house parties, as small town +younger generations are apt to. When Ted went to high school half the +boys in his little clique spent their after-school hours dashing up and +down Main street in their big, glittering cars, sitting slumped down on +the middle of their spines in front of the steering wheel, their sleeves +rolled up, their hair combed a militant pompadour. One or the other of +them always took Ted along. It is fearfully easy to develop a taste for +that kind of thing. As he grew older, the taste took root and became a +habit. +</P> + +<P> +Ted came out after serving his term, still handsome, spite of all that +story-writers may have taught to the contrary. But we'll make this +concession to the old tradition. There was a difference. +</P> + +<P> +His radiant blondeur was dimmed in some intangible, elusive way. Birdie +Callahan, who had worked in Ted's mother's kitchen for years, and who had +gone back to her old job at the Haley House after her mistress's death, +put it sadly, thus: +</P> + +<P> +"He was always th' han'some divil. I used to look forward to ironin' day +just for the pleasure of pressin' his fancy shirts for him. I'm that +partial to them swell blondes. But I dinnaw, he's changed. Doin' time +has taken the edge off his hair an' complexion. Not changed his color, +do yuh mind, but dulled it, like a gold ring, or the like, that has +tarnished." +</P> + +<P> +Ted was seated in the smoker, with a chip on his shoulder, and a sick +horror of encountering some one he knew in his heart, when Jo Haley, of +the Haley House, got on at Westport, homeward bound. Jo Haley is the +most eligible bachelor in our town, and the slipperiest. He has made the +Haley House a gem, so that traveling men will cut half a dozen towns to +Sunday there. If he should say "Jump through this!" to any girl in our +town she'd jump. +</P> + +<P> +Jo Haley strolled leisurely up the car aisle toward Ted. Ted saw him +coming and sat very still, waiting. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Ted! How's Ted?" said Jo Haley, casually. And dropped into the +adjoining seat without any more fuss. +</P> + +<P> +Ted wet his lips slightly and tried to say something. He had been a +breezy talker. But the words would not come. Jo Haley made no effort to +cover the situation with a rush of conversation. He did not seem to +realize that there was any situation to cover. He champed the end of his +cigar and handed one to Ted. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you've taken your lickin', kid. What you going to do now?" +</P> + +<P> +The rawness of it made Ted wince. "Oh, I don't know," he stammered. +"I've a job half promised in Chicago." +</P> + +<P> +"What doing?" +</P> + +<P> +Ted laughed a short and ugly laugh. "Driving a brewery auto truck." +</P> + +<P> +Jo Haley tossed his cigar dexterously to the opposite corner of his mouth +and squinted thoughtfully along its bulging sides. +</P> + +<P> +"Remember that Wenzel girl that's kept books for me for the last six +years? She's leaving in a couple of months to marry a New York guy that +travels for ladies' cloaks and suits. After she goes it's nix with the +lady bookkeepers for me. Not that Minnie isn't a good, straight girl, +and honest, but no girl can keep books with one eye on a column of +figures and the other on a traveling man in a brown suit and a red +necktie, unless she's cross-eyed, and you bet Minnie ain't. The job's +yours if you want it. Eighty a month to start on, and board." +</P> + +<P> +"I—can't, Jo. Thanks just the same. I'm going to try to begin all over +again, somewhere else, where nobody knows me." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes," said Jo. "I knew a fellow that did that. After he came out he +grew a beard, and wore eyeglasses, and changed his name. Had a quick, +crisp way of talkin', and he cultivated a drawl and went west and started +in business. Real estate, I think. Anyway, the second month he was +there in walks a fool he used to know and bellows: 'Why if it ain't +Bill! Hello, Bill! I thought you was doing time yet.' That was enough. +Ted, you can black your face, and dye your hair, and squint, and some +fine day, sooner or later, somebody'll come along and blab the whole +thing. And say, the older it gets the worse it sounds, when it does come +out. Stick around here where you grew up, Ted." +</P> + +<P> +Ted clasped and unclasped his hands uncomfortably. "I can't figure out +why you should care how I finish." +</P> + +<P> +"No reason," answered Jo. "Not a darned one. I wasn't ever in love with +your ma, like the guy on the stage; and I never owed your pa a cent. So +it ain't a guilty conscience. I guess it's just pure cussedness, and a +hankerin' for a new investment. I'm curious to know how'll you turn out. +You've got the makin's of what the newspapers call a Leading Citizen, +even if you did fall down once. If I'd ever had time to get married, +which I never will have, a first-class hotel bein' more worry and expense +than a Pittsburg steel magnate's whole harem, I'd have wanted somebody to +do the same for my kid. That sounds slushy, but it's straight." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't seem to know how to thank you," began Ted, a little husky as to +voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Call around to-morrow morning," interrupted Jo Haley, briskly, "and +Minnie Wenzel will show you the ropes. You and her can work together for +a couple of months. After then she's leaving to make her underwear, and +that. I should think she'd have a bale of it by this time. Been +embroidering them shimmy things and lunch cloths back of the desk when +she thought I wasn't lookin' for the last six months." +</P> + +<P> +Ted came down next morning at 8 A.M. with his nerve between his teeth and +the chip still balanced lightly on his shoulder. Five minutes later +Minnie Wenzel knocked it off. When Jo Haley introduced the two +jocularly, knowing that they had originally met in the First Reader room, +Miss Wenzel acknowledged the introduction icily by lifting her left +eyebrow slightly and drawing down the corners of her mouth. Her air of +hauteur was a triumph, considering that she was handicapped by black +sateen sleevelets. +</P> + +<P> +I wonder how one could best describe Miss Wenzel? There is one of her in +every small town. Let me think (business of hand on brow). Well, she +always paid eight dollars for her corsets when most girls in a similar +position got theirs for fifty-nine cents in the basement. Nature had +been kind to her. The hair that had been a muddy brown in Minnie's +schoolgirl days it had touched with a magic red-gold wand. Birdie +Callahan always said that Minnie was working only to wear out her old +clothes. +</P> + +<P> +After the introduction Miss Wenzel followed Jo Haley into the lobby. She +took no pains to lower her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Well I must say, Mr. Haley, you've got a fine nerve! If my gentleman +friend was to hear of my working with an ex-con I wouldn't be surprised +if he'd break off the engagement. I should think you'd have some respect +for the feelings of a lady with a name to keep up, and engaged to a swell +fellow like Mr. Schwartz." +</P> + +<P> +"Say, listen, m' girl," replied Jo Haley. "The law don't cover all the +tricks. But if stuffing an order was a criminal offense I'll bet your +swell traveling man would be doing a life term." +</P> + +<P> +Ted worked that day with his teeth set so that his jaws ached next +morning. Minnie Wenzel spoke to him only when necessary and then in +terms of dollars and cents. When dinner time came she divested herself +of the black sateen sleevelets, wriggled from the shoulders down a la +Patricia O'Brien, produced a chamois skin, and disappeared in the +direction of the washroom. Ted waited until the dining-room was almost +deserted. Then he went in to dinner alone. Some one in white wearing an +absurd little pocket handkerchief of an apron led him to a seat in a far +corner of the big room. Ted did not lift his eyes higher than the snowy +square of the apron. The Apron drew out a chair, shoved it under Ted's +knees in the way Aprons have, and thrust a printed menu at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Roast beef, medium," said Ted, without looking up. +</P> + +<P> +"Bless your heart, yuh ain't changed a bit. I remember how yuh used to +jaw when it was too well done," said the Apron, fondly. +</P> + +<P> +Ted's head came up with a jerk. +</P> + +<P> +"So yuh will cut yer old friends, is it?" grinned Birdie Callahan. "If +this wasn't a public dining-room maybe yuh'd shake hands with a poor but +proud workin' girrul. Yer as good lookin' a divil as ever, Mister Ted." +</P> + +<P> +Ted's hand shot out and grasped hers. "Birdie! I could weep on your +apron! I never was so glad to see any one in my life. Just to look at +you makes me homesick. What in Sam Hill are you doing here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Waitin'. After yer ma died, seemed like I didn't care t' work fer no +other privit fam'ly, so I came back here on my old job. I'll bet I'm the +homeliest head waitress in captivity." +</P> + +<P> +Ted's nervous fingers were pleating the tablecloth. His voice sank to a +whisper. "Birdie, tell me the God's truth. Did those three years cause +her death?" +</P> + +<P> +"Niver!" lied Birdie. "I was with her to the end. It started with a +cold on th' chest. Have some French fried with yer beef, Mr. Teddy. +They're illigent to-day." +</P> + +<P> +Birdie glided off to the kitchen. Authors are fond of the word "glide." +But you can take it literally this time. Birdie had a face that looked +like a huge mistake, but she walked like a panther, and they're said to +be the last cry as gliders. She walked with her chin up and her hips +firm. That comes from juggling trays. You have to walk like that to +keep your nose out of the soup. After a while the walk becomes a habit. +Any seasoned dining-room girl could give lessons in walking to the +Delsarte teacher of an Eastern finishing school. +</P> + +<P> +From the day that Birdie Callahan served Ted with the roast beef medium +and the elegant French fried, she appointed herself monitor over his food +and clothes and morals. I wish I could find words to describe his bitter +loneliness. He did not seek companionship. The men, although not +directly avoiding him, seemed somehow to have pressing business whenever +they happened in his vicinity. The women ignored him. Mrs. Dankworth, +still dashing and still widowed, passed Ted one day and looked fixedly at +a point one inch above his head. In a town like ours the Haley House is +like a big, hospitable clubhouse. The men drop in there the first thing +in the morning, and the last thing at night, to hear the gossip and buy a +cigar and jolly the girl at the cigar counter. Ted spoke to them when +they spoke to him. He began to develop a certain grim line about the +mouth. Jo Haley watched him from afar, and the longer he watched the +kinder and more speculative grew the look in his eyes. And slowly and +surely there grew in the hearts of our townspeople a certain new respect +and admiration for this boy who was fighting his fight. +</P> + +<P> +Ted got into the habit of taking his meals late, so that Birdie Callahan +could take the time to talk to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Birdie," he said one day, when she brought his soup, "do you know that +you're the only decent woman who'll talk to me? Do you know what I mean +when I say that I'd give the rest of my life if I could just put my head +in my mother's lap and have her muss up my hair and call me foolish +names?" +</P> + +<P> +Birdie Callahan cleared her throat and said abruptly: "I was noticin' +yesterday your gray pants needs pressin' bad. Bring 'em down tomorrow +mornin' and I'll give 'em th' elegant crease in the laundry." +</P> + +<P> +So the first weeks went by, and the two months of Miss Wenzel's stay came +to an end. Ted thanked his God and tried hard not to wish that she was a +man so that he could punch her head. +</P> + +<P> +The day before the time appointed for her departure she was closeted with +Jo Haley for a long, long time. When finally she emerged a bellboy +lounged up to Ted with a message. +</P> + +<P> +"Wenzel says th' Old Man wants t' see you. 'S in his office. Say, Mr. +Terrill, do yuh think they can play to-day? It's pretty wet." +</P> + +<P> +Jo Haley was sunk in the depths of his big leather chair. He did not +look up as Ted entered. "Sit down," he said. Ted sat down and waited, +puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"As a wizard at figures," mused Jo Haley at last, softly as though to +himself, "I'm a frost. A column of figures on paper makes my head swim. +But I can carry a whole regiment of 'em in my head. I know every time +the barkeeper draws one in the dark. I've been watchin' this thing for +the last two weeks hopin' you'd quit and come and tell me." He turned +suddenly and faced Ted. "Ted, old kid," he said sadly, "what'n'ell made +you do it again?" +</P> + +<P> +"What's the joke?" asked Ted. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Ted," remonstrated Jo Haley, "that way of talkin' won't help +matters none. As I said, I'm rotten at figures. But you're the first +investment that ever turned out bad, and let me tell you I've handled +some mighty bad smelling ones. Why, kid, if you had just come to me on +the quiet and asked for the loan of a hundred or so why——" +</P> + +<P> +"What's the joke, Jo?" said Ted again, slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"This ain't my notion of a joke," came the terse answer. "We're three +hundred short." +</P> + +<P> +The last vestige of Ted Terrill's old-time radiance seemed to flicker and +die, leaving him ashen and old. +</P> + +<P> +"Short?" he repeated. Then, "My God!" in a strangely colorless +voice—"My God!" He looked down at his fingers impersonally, as though +they belonged to some one else. Then his hand clutched Jo Haley's arm +with the grip of fear. "Jo! Jo! That's the thing that has haunted me +day and night, till my nerves are raw. The fear of doing it again. +Don't laugh at me, will you? I used to lie awake nights going over that +cursed business of the bank—over and over—till the cold sweat would +break out all over me. I used to figure it all out again, step by step, +until—Jo, could a man steal and not know it? Could thinking of a thing +like that drive a man crazy? Because if it could—if it could—then——" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know," said Jo Haley, "but it sounds darned fishy." He had a +hand on Ted's shaking shoulder, and was looking into the white, drawn +face. "I had great plans for you, Ted. But Minnie Wenzel's got it all +down on slips of paper. I might as well call her, in again, and we'll +have the whole blamed thing out." +</P> + +<P> +Minnie Wenzel came. In her hand were slips of paper, and books with +figures in them, and Ted looked and saw things written in his own hand +that should not have been there. And he covered his shamed face with his +two hands and gave thanks that his mother was dead. +</P> + +<P> +There came three sharp raps at the office door. The tense figures within +jumped nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"Keep out!" called Jo Haley, "whoever you are." Whereupon the door +opened and Birdie Callahan breezed in. +</P> + +<P> +"Get out, Birdie Callahan," roared Jo. "You're in the wrong pew." +</P> + +<P> +Birdie closed the door behind her composedly and came farther into the +room. "Pete th' pasthry cook just tells me that Minnie Wenzel told th' +day clerk, who told the barkeep, who told th' janitor, who told th' chef, +who told Pete, that Minnie had caught Ted stealin' some three hundred +dollars." +</P> + +<P> +Ted took a quick step forward. "Birdie, for Heaven's sake keep out of +this. You can't make things any better. You may believe in me, but——" +</P> + +<P> +"Where's the money?" asked Birdie. +</P> + +<P> +Ted stared at her a moment, his mouth open ludicrously. +</P> + +<P> +"Why—I—don't—know," he articulated, painfully. "I never thought of +that." +</P> + +<P> +Birdie snorted defiantly. "I thought so. D'ye know," sociably, "I was +visitin' with my aunt Mis' Mulcahy last evenin'." +</P> + +<P> +There was a quick rustle of silks from Minnie Wenzel's direction. +</P> + +<P> +"Say, look here——" began Jo Haley, impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"Shut up, Jo Haley!" snapped Birdie. "As I was sayin', I was visitin' +with my aunt Mis' Mulcahy. She does fancy washin' an' ironin' for the +swells. An' Minnie Wenzel, there bein' none sweller, hires her to do up +her weddin' linens. Such smears av hand embridery an' Irish crochet she +never see th' likes, Mis' Mulcahy says, and she's seen a lot. And as a +special treat to the poor owld soul, why Minnie Wenzel lets her see some +av her weddin' clo'es. There never yet was a woman who cud resist +showin' her weddin' things to every other woman she cud lay hands on. +Well, Mis' Mulcahy, she see that grand trewsow and she said she never saw +th' beat. Dresses! Well, her going away suit alone comes to eighty +dollars, for it's bein' made by Molkowsky, the little Polish tailor. An' +her weddin' dress is satin, do yuh mind! Oh, it was a real treat for my +aunt Mis' Mulcahy." +</P> + +<P> +Birdie walked over to where Minnie Wenzel sat, very white and still, and +pointed a stubby red finger in her face. "'Tis the grand manager ye are, +Miss Wenzel, gettin' satins an' tailor-mades on yer salary. It takes a +woman, Minnie Wenzel, to see through a woman's thricks." +</P> + +<P> +"Well I'll be dinged!" exploded Jo Haley. +</P> + +<P> +"Yuh'd better be!" retorted Birdie Callahan. +</P> + +<P> +Minnie Wenzel stood up, her lip caught between her teeth. +</P> + +<P> +"Am I to understand, Jo Haley, that you dare to accuse me of taking your +filthy money, instead of that miserable ex-con there who has done time?" +</P> + +<P> +"That'll do, Minnie," said Jo Haley, gently. "That's a-plenty." +</P> + +<P> +"Prove it," went on Minnie, and then looked as though she wished she +hadn't. +</P> + +<P> +"A business college edjication is a grand foine thing," observed Birdie. +"Miss Wenzel is a graduate av wan. They teach you everything from +drawin' birds with tail feathers to plain and fancy penmanship. In fact, +they teach everything in the writin' line except forgery, an' I ain't so +sure they haven't got a coorse in that." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care," whimpered Minnie Wenzel suddenly, sinking in a limp heap +on the floor. "I had to do it. I'm marrying a swell fellow and a girl's +got to have some clothes that don't look like a Bird Center dressmaker's +work. He's got three sisters. I saw their pictures and they're coming +to the wedding. They're the kind that wear low-necked dresses in the +evening, and have their hair and nails done downtown. I haven't got a +thing but my looks. Could I go to New York dressed like a rube? On the +square, Jo, I worked here six years and never took a sou. But things got +away from me. The tailor wouldn't finish my suit unless I paid him fifty +dollars down. I only took fifty at first, intending to pay it back. +Honest to goodness, Jo, I did." +</P> + +<P> +"Cut it out," said Jo Haley, "and get up. I was going to give you a +check for your wedding, though I hadn't counted on no three hundred. +We'll call it square. And I hope you'll be happy, but I don't gamble on +it. You'll be goin' through your man's pants pockets before you're +married a year. You can take your hat and fade. I'd like to know how +I'm ever going to square this thing with Ted and Birdie." +</P> + +<P> +"An' me standin' here gassin' while them fool girls in the dinin'-room +can't set a table decent, and dinner in less than ten minutes," cried +Birdie, rushing off. Ted mumbled something unintelligible and was after +her. +</P> + +<P> +"Birdie! I want to talk to you." +</P> + +<P> +"Say it quick then," said Birdie, over her shoulder. "The doors open in +three minnits." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't tell you how grateful I am. This is no place to talk to you. +Will you let me walk home with you to-night after your work's done?" +</P> + +<P> +"Will I?" said Birdie, turning to face him. "I will not. Th' swell mob +has shook you, an' a good thing it is. You was travelin' with a bunch of +racers, when you was only built for medium speed. Now you're got your +chance to a fresh start and don't you ever think I'm going to be the one +to let you spoil it by beginnin' to walk out with a dinin'-room Lizzie +like me." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't say that, Birdie," Ted put in. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the truth," affirmed Birdie. "Not that I ain't a perfec'ly +respectable girrul, and ye know it. I'm a good slob, but folks would be +tickled for the chance to say that you had nobody to go with but the +likes av me. If I was to let you walk home with me to-night, yuh might +be askin' to call next week. Inside half a year, if yuh was lonesome +enough, yuh'd ask me to marry yuh. And b'gorra," she said softly, +looking down at her unlovely red hands, "I'm dead scared I'd do it. Get +back to work, Ted Terrill, and hold yer head up high, and when yuh say +your prayers to-night, thank your lucky stars I ain't a hussy." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WHAT SHE WORE +</H3> + +<P> +Somewhere in your story you must pause to describe your heroine's +costume. It is a ticklish task. The average reader likes his heroine +well dressed. He is not satisfied with knowing that she looked like a +tall, fair lily. He wants to be told that her gown was of green crepe, +with lace ruffles that swirled at her feet. Writers used to go so far as +to name the dressmaker; and it was a poor kind of a heroine who didn't +wear a red velvet by Worth. But that has been largely abandoned in these +days of commissions. Still, when the heroine goes out on the terrace to +spoon after dinner (a quaint old English custom for the origin of which +see any novel by the "Duchess," page 179) the average reader wants to +know what sort of a filmy wrap she snatches up on the way out. He +demands a description, with as many illustrations as the publisher will +stand for, of what she wore from the bedroom to the street, with full +stops for the ribbons on her robe de nuit, and the buckles on her +ballroom slippers. Half the poor creatures one sees flattening their +noses against the shop windows are authors getting a line on the advance +fashions. Suppose a careless writer were to dress his heroine in a +full-plaited skirt only to find, when his story is published four months +later, that full-plaited skirts have been relegated to the dim past! +</P> + +<P> +I started to read a story once. It was a good one. There was in it not +a single allusion to brandy-and-soda, or divorce, or the stock market. +The dialogue crackled. The hero talked like a live man. It was a +shipboard story, and the heroine was charming so long as she wore her +heavy ulster. But along toward evening she blossomed forth in a yellow +gown, with a scarlet poinsettia at her throat. I quit her cold. Nobody +ever wore a scarlet poinsettia; or if they did, they couldn't wear it on +a yellow gown. Or if they did wear it with a yellow gown, they didn't +wear it at the throat. Scarlet poinsettias aren't worn, anyhow. To this +day I don't know whether the heroine married the hero or jumped overboard. +</P> + +<P> +You see, one can't be too careful about clothing one's heroine. +</P> + +<P> +I hesitate to describe Sophy Epstein's dress. You won't like it. In the +first place, it was cut too low, front and back, for a shoe clerk in a +downtown loft. It was a black dress, near-princess in style, very tight +as to fit, very short as to skirt, very sleazy as to material. It showed +all the delicate curves of Sophy's under-fed, girlish body, and Sophy +didn't care a bit. Its most objectionable feature was at the throat. +Collarless gowns were in vogue. Sophy's daring shears had gone a snip or +two farther. They had cut a startlingly generous V. To say that the +dress was elbow-sleeved is superfluous. I have said that Sophy clerked +in a downtown loft. +</P> + +<P> +Sophy sold "sample" shoes at two-fifty a pair, and from where you were +standing you thought they looked just like the shoes that were sold in +the regular shops for six. When Sophy sat on one of the low benches at +the feet of some customer, tugging away at a refractory shoe for a +would-be small foot, her shameless little gown exposed more than it +should have. But few of Sophy's customers were shocked. They were +mainly chorus girls and ladies of doubtful complexion in search of cheap +and ultra footgear, and—to use a health term—hardened by exposure. +</P> + +<P> +Have I told you how pretty she was? She was so pretty that you +immediately forgave her the indecency of her pitiful little gown. She +was pretty in a daringly demure fashion, like a wicked little Puritan, or +a poverty-stricken Cleo de Merode, with her smooth brown hair parted in +the middle, drawn severely down over her ears, framing the lovely oval of +her face and ending in a simple coil at the neck. Some serpent's wisdom +had told Sophy to eschew puffs. But I think her prettiness could have +triumphed even over those. +</P> + +<P> +If Sophy's boss had been any other sort of man he would have informed +Sophy, sternly, that black princess effects, cut low, were not au fait in +the shoe-clerk world. But Sophy's boss had a rhombic nose, and no +instep, and the tail of his name had been amputated. He didn't care how +Sophy wore her dresses so long as she sold shoes. +</P> + +<P> +Once the boss had kissed Sophy—not on the mouth, but just where her +shabby gown formed its charming but immodest V. Sophy had slapped him, +of course. But the slap had not set the thing right in her mind. She +could not forget it. It had made her uncomfortable in much the same way +as we are wildly ill at ease when we dream of walking naked in a crowded +street. At odd moments during the day Sophy had found herself rubbing +the spot furiously with her unlovely handkerchief, and shivering a +little. She had never told the other girls about that kiss. +</P> + +<P> +So—there you have Sophy and her costume. You may take her or leave her. +I purposely placed these defects in costuming right at the beginning of +the story, so that there should be no false pretenses. One more detail. +About Sophy's throat was a slender, near-gold chain from which was +suspended a cheap and glittering La Valliere. Sophy had not intended it +as a sop to the conventions. It was an offering on the shrine of +Fashion, and represented many lunchless days. +</P> + +<P> +At eleven o'clock one August morning, Louie came to Chicago from +Oskaloosa, Iowa. There was no hay in his hair. The comic papers have +long insisted that the country boy, on his first visit to the city, is +known by his greased boots and his high-water pants. Don't you believe +them. The small-town boy is as fastidious about the height of his heels +and the stripe of his shift and the roll of his hat-brim as are his city +brothers. He peruses the slangily worded ads of the "classy clothes" +tailors, and when scarlet cravats are worn the small-town boy is not more +than two weeks late in acquiring one that glows like a headlight. +</P> + +<P> +Louie found a rooming-house, shoved his suitcase under the bed, changed +his collar, washed his hands in the gritty water of the wash bowl, and +started out to look for a job. +</P> + +<P> +Louie was twenty-one. For the last four years he had been employed in +the best shoe store at home, and he knew shoe leather from the factory to +the ash barrel. It was almost a religion with him. +</P> + +<P> +Curiosity, which plays leads in so many life dramas, led Louie to the +rotunda of the tallest building. It was built on the hollow center plan, +with a sheer drop from the twenty-somethingth to the main floor. Louie +stationed himself in the center of the mosaic floor, took off his hat, +bent backward almost double and gazed, his mouth wide open. When he +brought his muscles slowly back into normal position he tried hard not to +look impressed. He glanced about, sheepishly, to see if any one was +laughing at him, and his eye encountered the electric-lighted glass +display case of the shoe company upstairs. The case was filled with pink +satin slippers and cunning velvet boots, and the newest thing in bronze +street shoes. Louie took the next elevator up. The shoe display had +made him feel as though some one from home had slapped him on the back. +</P> + +<P> +The God of the Jobless was with him. The boss had fired two boys the day +before. +</P> + +<P> +"Oskaloosa!" grinned the boss, derisively. "Do they wear shoes there? +What do you know about shoes, huh boy?" +</P> + +<P> +Louie told him. The boss shuffled the papers on his desk, and chewed his +cigar, and tried not to show his surprise. Louie, quite innocently, was +teaching the boss things about the shoe business. +</P> + +<P> +When Louie had finished—"Well, I try you, anyhow," the boss grunted, +grudgingly. "I give you so-and-so much." He named a wage that would +have been ridiculous if it had not been so pathetic. +</P> + +<P> +"All right, sir," answered Louie, promptly, like the boys in the Alger +series. The cost of living problem had never bothered Louie in Oskaloosa. +</P> + +<P> +The boss hid a pleased smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Epstein!" he bellowed, "step this way! Miss Epstein, kindly show +this here young man so he gets a line on the stock. He is from +Oskaloosa, Ioway. Look out she don't sell you a gold brick, Louie." +</P> + +<P> +But Louie was not listening. He was gazing at the V in Sophy Epstein's +dress with all his scandalized Oskaloosa, Iowa, eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Louie was no mollycoddle. But he had been in great demand as usher at +the Young Men's Sunday Evening Club service at the Congregational church, +and in his town there had been no Sophy Epsteins in too-tight princess +dresses, cut into a careless V. But Sophy was a city product—I was +about to say pure and simple, but I will not—wise, bold, young, old, +underfed, overworked, and triumphantly pretty. +</P> + +<P> +"How-do!" cooed Sophy in her best baby tones. Louie's disapproving eyes +jumped from the objectionable V in Sophy's dress to the lure of Sophy's +face, and their expression underwent a lightning change. There was no +disapproving Sophy's face, no matter how long one had dwelt in Oskaloosa. +</P> + +<P> +"I won't bite you," said Sophy. "I'm never vicious on Tuesdays. We'll +start here with the misses' an' children's, and work over to the other +side." +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon Louie was introduced into the intricacies of the sample shoe +business. He kept his eyes resolutely away from the V, and learned many +things. He learned how shoes that look like six dollar values may be +sold for two-fifty. He looked on in wide-eyed horror while Sophy fitted +a No. 5 C shoe on a 6 B foot and assured the wearer that it looked like a +made-to-order boot. He picked up a pair of dull kid shoes and looked at +them. His leather-wise eyes saw much, and I think he would have taken +his hat off the hook, and his offended business principles out of the +shop forever if Sophy had not completed her purchase and strolled over to +him at the psychological moment. +</P> + +<P> +She smiled up at him, impudently. "Well, Pink Cheeks," she said, "how do +you like our little settlement by the lake, huh?" +</P> + +<P> +"These shoes aren't worth two-fifty," said Louie, indignation in his +voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, sure," replied Sophy. "I know it. What do you think this is? A +charity bazaar?" +</P> + +<P> +"But back home——" began Louie, hotly. +</P> + +<P> +"Ferget it, kid," said Sophy. "This is a big town, but it ain't got no +room for back-homers. Don't sour on one job till you've got another +nailed. You'll find yourself cuddling down on a park bench if you do. +Say, are you honestly from Oskaloosa?" +</P> + +<P> +"I certainly am," answered Louie, with pride. +</P> + +<P> +"My goodness!" ejaculated Sophy. "I never believed there was no such +place. Don't brag about it to the other fellows." +</P> + +<P> +"What time do you go out for lunch?" asked Louie. +</P> + +<P> +"What's it to you?" with the accent on the "to." +</P> + +<P> +"When I want to know a thing, I generally ask," explained Louie, gently. +</P> + +<P> +Sophy looked at him—a long, keen, knowing look. "You'll learn," she +observed, thoughtfully. +</P> + +<P> +Louie did learn. He learned so much in that first week that when Sunday +came it seemed as though aeons had passed over his head. He learned that +the crime of murder was as nothing compared to the crime of allowing a +customer to depart shoeless; he learned that the lunch hour was invented +for the purpose of making dates; that no one had ever heard of Oskaloosa, +Iowa; that seven dollars a week does not leave much margin for laundry +and general recklessness; that a madonna face above a V-cut gown is apt +to distract one's attention from shoes; that a hundred-dollar nest egg is +as effective in Chicago as a pine stick would be in propping up a stone +wall; and that all the other men clerks called Sophy "sweetheart." +</P> + +<P> +Some of his newly acquired knowledge brought pain, as knowledge is apt to +do. +</P> + +<P> +He saw that State Street was crowded with Sophys during the noon hour; +girls with lovely faces under pitifully absurd hats. Girls who aped the +fashions of the dazzling creatures they saw stepping from limousines. +Girls who starved body and soul in order to possess a set of false curls, +or a pair of black satin shoes with mother-o'-pearl buttons. Girls +whose minds were bounded on the north by the nickel theatres; on the east +by "I sez to him"; on the south by the gorgeous shop windows; and on the +west by "He sez t' me." +</P> + +<P> +Oh, I can't tell you how much Louie learned in that first week while his +eyes were getting accustomed to the shifting, jostling, pushing, +giggling, walking, talking throng. The city is justly famed as a hot +house of forced knowledge. +</P> + +<P> +One thing Louie could not learn. He could not bring himself to accept +the V in Sophy's dress. Louie's mother had been one of the old-fashioned +kind who wore a blue-and-white checked gingham apron from 6 A.M. to 2 +P.M., when she took it off to go downtown and help the ladies of the +church at the cake sale in the empty window of the gas company's office, +only to don it again when she fried the potatoes for supper. Among other +things she had taught Louie to wipe his feet before coming in, to respect +and help women, and to change his socks often. +</P> + +<P> +After a month of Chicago Louie forgot the first lesson; had more +difficulty than I can tell you in reverencing a woman who only said, "Aw, +don't get fresh now!" when the other men put their arms about her; and +adhered to the third only after a struggle, in which he had to do a small +private washing in his own wash-bowl in the evening. +</P> + +<P> +Sophy called him a stiff. His gravely courteous treatment of her made +her vaguely uncomfortable. She was past mistress in the art of parrying +insults and banter, but she had no reply ready for Louie's boyish air of +deference. It angered her for some unreasonable woman-reason. +</P> + +<P> +There came a day when the V-cut dress brought them to open battle. I +think Sophy had appeared that morning minus the chain and La Valliere. +Frail and cheap as it was, it had been the only barrier that separated +Sophy from frank shamelessness. Louie's outraged sense of propriety +asserted itself. +</P> + +<P> +"Sophy," he stammered, during a quiet half-hour, "I'll call for you and +take you to the nickel show to-night if you'll promise not to wear that +dress. What makes you wear that kind of a get-up, anyway?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dress?" queried Sophy, looking down at the shiny front breadth of her +frock. "Why? Don't you like it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Like it! No!" blurted Louie. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't yuh, rully! Deah me! Deah me! If I'd only knew that this +morning. As a gen'ral thing I wear white duck complete down t' work, but +I'm savin' my last two clean suits f'r gawlf." +</P> + +<P> +Louie ran an uncomfortable finger around the edge of his collar, but he +stood his ground. "It—it—shows your—neck so," he objected, miserably. +</P> + +<P> +Sophy opened her great eyes wide. "Well, supposin' it does?" she +inquired, coolly. "It's a perfectly good neck, ain't it?" +</P> + +<P> +Louie, his face very red, took the plunge. "I don't know. I guess so. +But, Sophy, it—looks so—so—you know what I mean. I hate to see the +way the fellows rubber at you. Why don't you wear those plain shirtwaist +things, with high collars, like my mother wears back home?" +</P> + +<P> +Sophy's teeth came together with a click. She laughed a short cruel +little laugh. "Say, Pink Cheeks, did yuh ever do a washin' from seven to +twelve, after you got home from work in the evenin'? It's great! +'Specially when you're living in a six-by-ten room with all the modern +inconveniences, includin' no water except on the third floor down. +Simple! Say, a child could work it. All you got to do, when you get +home so tired your back teeth ache, is to haul your water, an' soak your +clothes, an' then rub 'em till your hands peel, and rinse 'em, an' boil +'em, and blue 'em, an' starch 'em. See? Just like that. Nothin' to it, +kid. Nothin' to it." +</P> + +<P> +Louie had been twisting his fingers nervously. Now his hands shut +themselves into fists. He looked straight into Sophy's angry eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I do know what it is," he said, quite simply. "There's been a lot +written and said about women's struggle with clothes. I wonder why +they've never said anything about the way a man has to fight to keep up +the thing they call appearances. God knows it's pathetic enough to think +of a girl like you bending over a tubful of clothes. But when a man has +to do it, it's a tragedy." +</P> + +<P> +"That's so," agreed Sophy. "When a girl gets shabby, and her clothes +begin t' look tacky she can take a gore or so out of her skirt where it's +the most wore, and catch it in at the bottom, and call it a hobble. An' +when her waist gets too soiled she can cover up the front of it with a +jabot, an' if her face is pretty enough she can carry it off that way. +But when a man is seedy, he's seedy. He can't sew no ruffles on his +pants." +</P> + +<P> +"I ran short last week," continued Louie. "That is, shorter than usual. +I hadn't the fifty cents to give to the woman. You ought to see her! A +little, gray-faced thing, with wisps of hair, and no chest to speak of, +and one of those mashed-looking black hats. Nobody could have the nerve +to ask her to wait for her money. So I did my own washing. I haven't +learned to wear soiled clothes yet. I laughed fit to bust while I was +doing it. But—I'll bet my mother dreamed of me that night. The way +they do, you know, when something's gone wrong." +</P> + +<P> +Sophy, perched on the third rung of the sliding ladder, was gazing at +him. Her lips were parted slightly, and her cheeks were very pink. On +her face was a new, strange look, as of something half forgotten. It was +as though the spirit of Sophy-as-she-might-have-been were inhabiting her +soul for a brief moment. At Louie's next words the look was gone. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you sew something—a lace yoke—or whatever you call 'em—in that +dress?" he persisted. +</P> + +<P> +"Aw, fade!" jeered Sophy. "When a girl's only got one dress it's got to +have some tong to it. Maybe this gown would cause a wave of indignation +in Oskaloosa, Iowa, but it don't even make a ripple on State Street. It +takes more than an aggravated Dutch neck to make a fellow look at a girl +these days. In a town like this a girl's got to make a showin' some way. +I'm my own stage manager. They look at my dress first, an' grin. See? +An' then they look at my face. I'm like the girl in the story. Muh face +is muh fortune. It's earned me many a square meal; an' lemme tell you, +Pink Cheeks, eatin' square meals is one of my favorite pastimes." +</P> + +<P> +"Say looka here!" bellowed the boss, wrathfully. "Just cut out this here +Romeo and Juliet act, will you! That there ladder ain't for no balcony +scene, understand. Here you, Louie, you shinny up there and get down a +pair of them brown satin pumps, small size." +</P> + +<P> +Sophy continued to wear the black dress. The V-cut neck seemed more +flaunting than ever. +</P> + +<P> +It was two weeks later that Louie came in from lunch, his face radiant. +He was fifteen minutes late, but he listened to the boss's ravings with a +smile. +</P> + +<P> +"You grin like somebody handed you a ten-case note," commented Sophy, +with a woman's curiosity. "I guess you must of met some rube from home +when you was out t' lunch." +</P> + +<P> +"Better than that! Who do you think I bumped right into in the elevator +going down?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Brothah Bones," mimicked Sophy, "who did you meet in the elevator +going down?" +</P> + +<P> +"I met a man named Ames. He used to travel for a big Boston shoe house, +and he made our town every few months. We got to be good friends. I +took him home for Sunday dinner once, and he said it was the best dinner +he'd had in months. You know how tired those traveling men get of hotel +grub." +</P> + +<P> +"Cut out the description and get down to action," snapped Sophy. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, he knew me right away. And he made me go out to lunch with him. +A real lunch, starting with soup. Gee! It went big. He asked me what I +was doing. I told him I was working here, and he opened his eyes, and +then he laughed and said: 'How did you get into that joint?' Then he +took me down to a swell little shoe shop on State Street, and it turned +out that he owns it. He introduced me all around, and I'm going there to +work next week. And wages! Why say, it's almost a salary. A fellow can +hold his head up in a place like that." +</P> + +<P> +"When you leavin'?" asked Sophy, slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"Monday. Gee! it seems a year away." +</P> + +<P> +Sophy was late Saturday morning. When she came in, hurriedly, her cheeks +were scarlet and her eyes glowed. She took off her hat and coat and fell +to straightening boxes and putting out stock without looking up. She +took no part in the talk and jest that was going on among the other +clerks. One of the men, in search of the missing mate to the shoe in his +hand, came over to her, greeting her carelessly. Then he stared. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what do you know about this!" he called out to the others, and +laughed coarsely, "Look, stop, listen! Little Sophy Bright Eyes here has +pulled down the shades." +</P> + +<P> +Louie turned quickly. The immodest V of Sophy's gown was filled with a +black lace yoke that came up to the very lobes of her little pink ears. +She had got some scraps of lace from—Where do they get those bits of +rusty black? From some basement bargain counter, perhaps, raked over +during the lunch hour. There were nine pieces in the front, and seven in +the back. She had sat up half the night putting them together so that +when completed they looked like one, if you didn't come too close. There +is a certain strain of Indian patience and ingenuity in women that no man +has ever been able to understand. +</P> + +<P> +Louie looked up and saw. His eyes met Sophy's. In his there crept a +certain exultant gleam, as of one who had fought for something great and +won. Sophy saw the look. The shy questioning in her eyes was replaced +by a spark of defiance. She tossed her head, and turned to the man who +had called attention to her costume. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's loony now?" she jeered. "I always put in a yoke when it gets +along toward fall. My lungs is delicate. And anyway, I see by the +papers yesterday that collarless gowns is slightly passay f'r winter." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A BUSH LEAGUE HERO +</H3> + +<P> +This is not a baseball story. The grandstand does not rise as one man +and shout itself hoarse with joy. There isn't a three-bagger in the +entire three thousand words, and nobody is carried home on the shoulders +of the crowd. For that sort of thing you need not squander fifteen cents +on your favorite magazine. The modest sum of one cent will make you the +possessor of a Pink 'Un. There you will find the season's games handled +in masterly fashion by a six-best-seller artist, an expert mathematician, +and an original-slang humorist. No mere short story dub may hope to +compete with these. +</P> + +<P> +In the old days, before the gentry of the ring had learned the wisdom of +investing their winnings in solids instead of liquids, this used to be a +favorite conundrum: When is a prize-fighter not a prize-fighter? +</P> + +<P> +Chorus: When he is tending bar. +</P> + +<P> +I rise to ask you Brothah Fan, when is a ball player not a ball player? +Above the storm of facetious replies I shout the answer: +</P> + +<P> +When he's a shoe clerk. +</P> + +<P> +Any man who can look handsome in a dirty baseball suit is an Adonis. +There is something about the baggy pants, and the Micawber-shaped collar, +and the skull-fitting cap, and the foot or so of tan, or blue, or pink +undershirt sleeve sticking out at the arms, that just naturally kills a +man's best points. Then too, a baseball suit requires so much in the +matter of leg. Therefore, when I say that Rudie Schlachweiler was a +dream even in his baseball uniform, with a dirty brown streak right up +the side of his pants where he had slid for base, you may know that the +girls camped on the grounds during the season. +</P> + +<P> +During the summer months our ball park is to us what the Grand Prix is to +Paris, or Ascot is to London. What care we that Evers gets seven +thousand a year (or is it a month?); or that Chicago's new South-side +ball park seats thirty-five thousand (or is it million?). Of what +interest are such meager items compared with the knowledge that "Pug" +Coulan, who plays short, goes with Undine Meyers, the girl up there in +the eighth row, with the pink dress and the red roses on her hat? When +"Pug" snatches a high one out of the firmament we yell with delight, and +even as we yell we turn sideways to look up and see how Undine is taking +it. Undine's shining eyes are fixed on "Pug," and he knows it, stoops to +brush the dust off his dirt-begrimed baseball pants, takes an attitude of +careless grace and misses the next play. +</P> + +<P> +Our grand-stand seats almost two thousand, counting the boxes. But only +the snobs, and the girls with new hats, sit in the boxes. Box seats are +comfortable, it is true, and they cost only an additional ten cents, but +we have come to consider them undemocratic, and unworthy of true fans. +Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne, who spends her winters in Egypt and her summers at +the ball park, comes out to the game every afternoon in her automobile, +but she never occupies a box seat; so why should we? She perches up in +the grand-stand with the rest of the enthusiasts, and when Kelly puts one +over she stands up and clinches her fists, and waves her arms and shouts +with the best of 'em. She has even been known to cry, "Good eye! Good +eye!" when things were at fever heat. The only really blase individual +in the ball park is Willie Grimes, who peddles ice-cream cones. For that +matter, I once saw Willie turn a languid head to pipe, in his thin voice, +"Give 'em a dark one, Dutch! Give 'em a dark one!" +</P> + +<P> +Well, that will do for the firsh dash of local color. Now for the story. +</P> + +<P> +Ivy Keller came home June nineteenth from Miss Shont's select school for +young ladies. By June twenty-first she was bored limp. You could hardly +see the plaits of her white tailored shirtwaist for fraternity pins and +secret society emblems, and her bedroom was ablaze with college banners +and pennants to such an extent that the maid gave notice every +Thursday—which was upstairs cleaning day. +</P> + +<P> +For two weeks after her return Ivy spent most of her time writing letters +and waiting for them, and reading the classics on the front porch, +dressed in a middy blouse and a blue skirt, with her hair done in a curly +Greek effect like the girls on the covers of the Ladies' Magazine. She +posed against the canvas bosom of the porch chair with one foot under +her, the other swinging free, showing a tempting thing in beaded slipper, +silk stocking, and what the story writers call "slim ankle." +</P> + +<P> +On the second Saturday after her return her father came home for dinner +at noon, found her deep in Volume Two of "Les Miserables." +</P> + +<P> +"Whew! This is a scorcher!" he exclaimed, and dropped down on a wicker +chair next to Ivy. Ivy looked at her father with languid interest, and +smiled a daughterly smile. Ivy's father was an insurance man, alderman +of his ward, president of the Civic Improvement club, member of five +lodges, and an habitual delegate. It generally was he who introduced +distinguished guests who spoke at the opera house on Decoration Day. He +called Mrs. Keller "Mother," and he wasn't above noticing the fit of a +gown on a pretty feminine figure. He thought Ivy was an expurgated +edition of Lillian Russell, Madame De Stael, and Mrs. Pankburst. +</P> + +<P> +"Aren't you feeling well, Ivy?" he asked. "Looking a little pale. It's +the heat, I suppose. Gosh! Something smells good. Run in and tell +Mother I'm here." +</P> + +<P> +Ivy kept one slender finger between the leaves of her book. "I'm +perfectly well," she replied. "That must be beefsteak and onions. Ugh!" +And she shuddered, and went indoors. +</P> + +<P> +Dad Keller looked after her thoughtfully. Then he went in, washed his +hands, and sat down at table with Ivy and her mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Just a sliver for me," said Ivy, "and no onions." +</P> + +<P> +Her father put down his knife and fork, cleared his throat, and spake, +thus: +</P> + +<P> +"You get on your hat and meet me at the 2:45 inter-urban. You're going +to the ball game with me." +</P> + +<P> +"Ball game!" repeated Ivy. "I? But I'd——" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you do," interrupted her father. "You've been moping around here +looking a cross between Saint Cecilia and Little Eva long enough. I +don't care if you don't know a spitball from a fadeaway when you see it. +You'll be out in the air all afternoon, and there'll be some excitement. +All the girls go. You'll like it. They're playing Marshalltown." +</P> + +<P> +Ivy went, looking the sacrificial lamb. Five minutes after the game was +called she pointed one tapering white finger in the direction of the +pitcher's mound. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's that?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Pitcher," explained Papa Keller, laconically. Then, patiently: "He +throws the ball." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," said Ivy. "What did you say his name was?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't say. But it's Rudie Schlachweiler. The boys call him Dutch. +Kind of a pet, Dutch is." +</P> + +<P> +"Rudie Schlachweiler!" murmured Ivy, dreamily. "What a strong name!" +</P> + +<P> +"Want some peanuts?" inquired her father. +</P> + +<P> +"Does one eat peanuts at a ball game?" +</P> + +<P> +"It ain't hardly legal if you don't," Pa Keller assured her. +</P> + +<P> +"Two sacks," said Ivy. "Papa, why do they call it a diamond, and what +are those brown bags at the corners, and what does it count if you hit +the ball, and why do they rub their hands in the dust and then—er—spit +on them, and what salary does a pitcher get, and why does the red-haired +man on the other side dance around like that between the second and third +brown bag, and doesn't a pitcher do anything but pitch, and wh——?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're on," said papa. +</P> + +<P> +After that Ivy didn't miss a game during all the time that the team +played in the home town. She went without a new hat, and didn't care +whether Jean Valjean got away with the goods or not, and forgot whether +you played third hand high or low in bridge. She even became chummy with +Undine Meyers, who wasn't her kind of a girl at all. Undine was thin in +a voluptuous kind of way, if such a paradox can be, and she had red lips, +and a roving eye, and she ran around downtown without a hat more than was +strictly necessary. But Undine and Ivy had two subjects in common. They +were baseball and love. It is queer how the limelight will make heroes +of us all. +</P> + +<P> +Now "Pug" Coulan, who was red-haired, and had shoulders like an ox, and +arms that hung down to his knees, like those of an orang-outang, +slaughtered beeves at the Chicago stockyards in winter. In the summer he +slaughtered hearts. He wore mustard colored shirts that matched his +hair, and his baseball stockings generally had a rip in them somewhere, +but when he was on the diamond we were almost ashamed to look at Undine, +so wholly did her heart shine in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Now, we'll have just another dash or two of local color. In a small town +the chances for hero worship are few. If it weren't for the traveling +men our girls wouldn't know whether stripes or checks were the thing in +gents' suitings. When the baseball season opened the girls swarmed on +it. Those that didn't understand baseball pretended they did. When the +team was out of town our form of greeting was changed from, +"Good-morning!" or "Howdy-do!" to "What's the score?" Every night the +results of the games throughout the league were posted up on the +blackboard in front of Schlager's hardware store, and to see the way in +which the crowd stood around it, and streamed across the street toward +it, you'd have thought they were giving away gas stoves and hammock +couches. +</P> + +<P> +Going home in the street car after the game the girls used to gaze +adoringly at the dirty faces of their sweat-begrimed heroes, and then +they'd rush home, have supper, change their dresses, do their hair, and +rush downtown past the Parker Hotel to mail their letters. The baseball +boys boarded over at the Griggs House, which is third-class, but they +used their tooth-picks, and held the postmortem of the day's game out in +front of the Parker Hotel, which is our leading hostelry. The postoffice +receipts record for our town was broken during the months of June, July, +and August. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne started the trouble by having the team over to +dinner, "Pug" Coulan and all. After all, why not? No foreign and +impecunious princes penetrate as far inland as our town. They get only +as far as New York, or Newport, where they are gobbled up by many-moneyed +matrons. If Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne found the supply of available lions +limited, why should she not try to content herself with a jackal or so? +</P> + +<P> +Ivy was asked. Until then she had contented herself with gazing at her +hero. She had become such a hardened baseball fan that she followed the +game with a score card, accurately jotting down every play, and keeping +her watch open on her knee. +</P> + +<P> +She sat next to Rudie at dinner. Before she had nibbled her second +salted almond, Ivy Keller and Rudie Schlachweiler understood each other. +Rudie illustrated certain plays by drawing lines on the table-cloth with +his knife and Ivy gazed, wide-eyed, and allowed her soup to grow cold. +</P> + +<P> +The first night that Rudie called, Pa Keller thought it a great joke. He +sat out on the porch with Rudie and Ivy and talked baseball, and got up +to show Rudie how he could have got the goat of that Keokuk catcher if +only he had tried one of his famous open-faced throws. Rudie looked +politely interested, and laughed in all the right places. But Ivy didn't +need to pretend. Rudie Schlachweiler spelled baseball to her. She did +not think of her caller as a good-looking young man in a blue serge suit +and a white shirtwaist. Even as he sat there she saw him as a blonde god +standing on the pitcher's mound, with the scars of battle on his baseball +pants, his left foot placed in front of him at right angles with his +right foot, his gaze fixed on first base in a cunning effort to deceive +the man at bat, in that favorite attitude of pitchers just before they +get ready to swing their left leg and h'ist one over. +</P> + +<P> +The second time that Rudie called, Ma Keller said: +</P> + +<P> +"Ivy, I don't like that ball player coming here to see you. The +neighbors'll talk." +</P> + +<P> +The third time Rudie called, Pa Keller said: "What's that guy doing here +again?" +</P> + +<P> +The fourth time Rudie called, Pa Keller and Ma Keller said, in unison: +"This thing has got to stop." +</P> + +<P> +But it didn't. It had had too good a start. For the rest of the season +Ivy met her knight of the sphere around the corner. Theirs was a walking +courtship. They used to roam up as far as the State road, and down as +far as the river, and Rudie would fain have talked of love, but Ivy +talked of baseball. +</P> + +<P> +"Darling," Rudie would murmur, pressing Ivy's arm closer, "when did you +first begin to care?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why I liked the very first game I saw when Dad——" +</P> + +<P> +"I mean, when did you first begin to care for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! When you put three men out in that game with Marshalltown when the +teams were tied in the eighth inning. Remember? Say, Rudie dear, what +was the matter with your arm to-day? You let three men walk, and Albia's +weakest hitter got a home run out of you." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, forget baseball for a minute, Ivy! Let's talk about something else. +Let's talk about—us." +</P> + +<P> +"Us? Well, you're baseball, aren't you?" retorted Ivy. "And if you are, +I am. Did you notice the way that Ottumwa man pitched yesterday? He +didn't do any acting for the grandstand. He didn't reach up above his +head, and wrap his right shoulder with his left toe, and swing his arm +three times and then throw seven inches outside the plate. He just took +the ball in his hand, looked at it curiously for a moment, and fired +it—zing!—like that, over the plate. I'd get that ball if I were you." +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't this a grand night?" murmured Rudie. +</P> + +<P> +"But they didn't have a hitter in the bunch," went on Ivy. "And not a +man in the team could run. That's why they're tail-enders. Just the +same, that man on the mound was a wizard, and if he had one decent player +to give him some support——" +</P> + +<P> +Well, the thing came to a climax. One evening, two weeks before the +close of the season, Ivy put on her hat and announced that she was going +downtown to mail her letters. +</P> + +<P> +"Mail your letters in the daytime," growled Papa Keller. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't have time to-day," answered Ivy. "It was a thirteen inning +game, and it lasted until six o'clock." +</P> + +<P> +It was then that Papa Keller banged the heavy fist of decision down on +the library table. +</P> + +<P> +"This thing's got to stop!" he thundered. "I won't have any girl of mine +running the streets with a ball player, understand? Now you quit seeing +this seventy-five-dollars-a-month bush leaguer or leave this house. I +mean it." +</P> + +<P> +"All right," said Ivy, with a white-hot calm. "I'll leave. I can make +the grandest kind of angel-food with marshmallow icing, and you know +yourself my fudges can't be equaled. He'll be playing in the major +leagues in three years. Why just yesterday there was a strange man at +the game—a city man, you could tell by his hat-band, and the way his +clothes were cut. He stayed through the whole game, and never took his +eyes off Rudie. I just know he was a scout for the Cubs." +</P> + +<P> +"Probably a hardware drummer, or a fellow that Schlachweiler owes money +to." +</P> + +<P> +Ivy began to pin on her hat. A scared look leaped into Papa Keller's +eyes. He looked a little old, too, and drawn, at that minute. He +stretched forth a rather tremulous hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Ivy-girl," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"What?" snapped Ivy. +</P> + +<P> +"Your old father's just talking for your own good. You're breaking your +ma's heart. You and me have been good pals, haven't we?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Ivy, grudgingly, and without looking up. +</P> + +<P> +"Well now, look here. I've got a proposition to make to you. The +season's over in two more weeks. The last week they play out of town. +Then the boys'll come back for a week or so, just to hang around town and +try to get used to the idea of leaving us. Then they'll scatter to take +up their winter jobs-cutting ice, most of 'em," he added, grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Schlachweiler is employed in a large establishment in Slatersville, +Ohio," said Ivy, with dignity. "He regards baseball as his profession, +and he cannot do anything that would affect his pitching arm." +</P> + +<P> +Pa Keller put on the tremolo stop and brought a misty look into his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Ivy, you'll do one last thing for your old father, won't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe," answered Ivy, coolly. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't make that fellow any promises. Now wait a minute! Let me get +through. I won't put any crimp in your plans. I won't speak to +Schlachweiler. Promise you won't do anything rash until the ball +season's over. Then we'll wait just one month, see? Till along about +November. Then if you feel like you want to see him——" +</P> + +<P> +"But how——" +</P> + +<P> +"Hold on. You mustn't write to him, or see him, or let him write to you +during that time, see? Then, if you feel the way you do now, I'll take +you to Slatersville to see him. Now that's fair, ain't it? Only don't +let him know you're coming." +</P> + +<P> +"M-m-m-yes," said Ivy. +</P> + +<P> +"Shake hands on it." She did. Then she left the room with a rush, +headed in the direction of her own bedroom. Pa Keller treated himself to +a prodigious wink and went out to the vegetable garden in search of +Mother. +</P> + +<P> +The team went out on the road, lost five games, won two, and came home in +fourth place. For a week they lounged around the Parker Hotel and held +up the street corners downtown, took many farewell drinks, then, slowly, +by ones and twos, they left for the packing houses, freight depots, and +gents' furnishing stores from whence they came. +</P> + +<P> +October came in with a blaze of sumac and oak leaves. Ivy stayed home and +learned to make veal loaf and apple pies. The worry lines around Pa +Keller's face began to deepen. Ivy said that she didn't believe that she +cared to go back to Miss Shont's select school for young ladies. +</P> + +<P> +October thirty-first came. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll take the eight-fifteen to-morrow," said her father to Ivy. +</P> + +<P> +"All right," said Ivy. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know where he works?" asked he. +</P> + +<P> +"No," answered Ivy. +</P> + +<P> +"That'll be all right. I took the trouble to look him up last August." +</P> + +<P> +The short November afternoon was drawing to its close (as our best talent +would put it) when Ivy and her father walked along the streets of +Slatersville. (I can't tell you what streets, because I don't know.) Pa +Keller brought up before a narrow little shoe shop. +</P> + +<P> +"Here we are," he said, and ushered Ivy in. A short, stout, proprietary +figure approached them smiling a mercantile smile. +</P> + +<P> +"What can I do for you?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +Ivy's eyes searched the shop for a tall, golden-haired form in a soiled +baseball suit. +</P> + +<P> +"We'd like to see a gentleman named Schlachweiler—Rudolph +Schlachweiler," said Pa Keller. +</P> + +<P> +"Anything very special?" inquired the proprietor. "He's—rather busy +just now. Wouldn't anybody else do? Of course, if——" +</P> + +<P> +"No," growled Keller. +</P> + +<P> +The boss turned. "Hi! Schlachweiler!" he bawled toward the rear of the +dim little shop. +</P> + +<P> +"Yessir," answered a muffled voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Front!" yelled the boss, and withdrew to a safe listening distance. +</P> + +<P> +A vaguely troubled look lurked in the depths of Ivy's eyes. From behind +the partition of the rear of the shop emerged a tall figure. It was none +other than our hero. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he struggled into +his coat as he came forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, +hurriedly, and swallowing. +</P> + +<P> +I have said that the shop was dim. Ivy and her father stood at one side, +their backs to the light. Rudie came forward, rubbing his hands together +in the manner of clerks. +</P> + +<P> +"Something in shoes?" he politely inquired. Then he saw. +</P> + +<P> +"Ivy!—ah—Miss Keller!" he exclaimed. Then, awkwardly: "Well, how-do, +Mr. Keller. I certainly am glad to see you both. How's the old town? +What are you doing in Slatersville?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why—Ivy——" began Pa Keller, blunderingly. +</P> + +<P> +But Ivy clutched his arm with a warning hand. The vaguely troubled look +in her eyes had become wildly so. +</P> + +<P> +"Schlachweiler!" shouted the voice of the boss. "Customers!" and he +waved a hand in the direction of the fitting benches. +</P> + +<P> +"All right, sir," answered Rudie. "Just a minute." +</P> + +<P> +"Dad had to come on business," said Ivy, hurriedly. "And he brought me +with him. I'm—I'm on my way to school in Cleveland, you know. Awfully +glad to have seen you again. We must go. That lady wants her shoes, I'm +sure, and your employer is glaring at us. Come, dad." +</P> + +<P> +At the door she turned just in time to see Rudie removing the shoe from +the pudgy foot of the fat lady customer. +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<P> +We'll take a jump of six months. That brings us into the lap of April. +</P> + +<P> +Pa Keller looked up from his evening paper. Ivy, home for the Easter +vacation, was at the piano. Ma Keller was sewing. +</P> + +<P> +Pa Keller cleared his throat. "I see by the paper," he announced, "that +Schlachweiler's been sold to Des Moines. Too bad we lost him. He was a +great little pitcher, but he played in bad luck. Whenever he was on the +slab the boys seemed to give him poor support." +</P> + +<P> +"Fudge!" exclaimed Ivy, continuing to play, but turning a spirited face +toward her father. "What piffle! Whenever a player pitches rotten ball +you'll always hear him howling about the support he didn't get. +Schlachweiler was a bum pitcher. Anybody could hit him with a willow +wand, on a windy day, with the sun in his eyes." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE KITCHEN SIDE OF THE DOOR +</H3> + +<P> +The City was celebrating New Year's Eve. Spelled thus, with a capital C, +know it can mean but New York. In the Pink Fountain room of the Newest +Hotel all those grand old forms and customs handed down to us for the +occasion were being rigidly observed in all their original quaintness. +The Van Dyked man who looked like a Russian Grand Duke (he really was a +chiropodist) had drunk champagne out of the pink satin slipper of the +lady who behaved like an actress (she was forelady at Schmaus' Wholesale +Millinery, eighth floor). The two respectable married ladies there in +the corner had been kissed by each other's husbands. The slim, +Puritan-faced woman in white, with her black hair so demurely parted and +coiled in a sleek knot, had risen suddenly from her place and walked +indolently to the edge of the plashing pink fountain in the center of the +room, had stood contemplating its shallows with a dreamy half-smile on +her lips, and then had lifted her slim legs slowly and gracefully over +its fern-fringed basin and had waded into its chilling midst, trailing +her exquisite white satin and chiffon draperies after her, and scaring +the goldfish into fits. The loudest scream of approbation had come from +the yellow-haired, loose-lipped youth who had made the wager, and lost +it. The heavy blonde in the inevitable violet draperies showed signs of +wanting to dance on the table. Her companion—a structure made up of +layer upon layer, and fold upon fold of flabby tissue—knew all the +waiters by their right names, and insisted on singing with the orchestra +and beating time with a rye roll. The clatter of dishes was giving way +to the clink of glasses. +</P> + +<P> +In the big, bright kitchen back, of the Pink Fountain room Miss Gussie +Fink sat at her desk, calm, watchful, insolent-eyed, a goddess sitting in +judgment. On the pay roll of the Newest Hotel Miss Gussie Fink's name +appeared as kitchen checker, but her regular job was goddessing. Her +altar was a high desk in a corner of the busy kitchen, and it was an +altar of incense, of burnt-offerings, and of showbread. Inexorable as a +goddess of the ancients was Miss Fink, and ten times as difficult to +appease. For this is the rule of the Newest Hotel, that no waiter may +carry his laden tray restaurantward until its contents have been viewed +and duly checked by the eye and hand of Miss Gussie Fink, or her +assistants. Flat upon the table must go every tray, off must go each +silver dish-cover, lifted must be each napkin to disclose its treasure of +steaming corn or hot rolls. Clouds of incense rose before Miss Gussie +Fink and she sniffed it unmoved, her eyes, beneath level brows, regarding +savory broiler or cunning ice with equal indifference, appraising alike +lobster cocktail or onion soup, traveling from blue points to brie. +Things a la and things glace were all one to her. Gazing at food was +Miss Gussie Fink's occupation, and just to see the way she regarded a +boneless squab made you certain that she never ate. +</P> + +<P> +In spite of the I-don't-know-how-many (see ads) New Year's Eve diners for +whom food was provided that night, the big, busy kitchen was the most +orderly, shining, spotless place imaginable. But Miss Gussie Fink was +the neatest, most immaculate object in all that great, clean room. There +was that about her which suggested daisies in a field, if you know what I +mean. This may have been due to the fact that her eyes were brown while +her hair was gold, or it may have been something about the way her +collars fitted high, and tight, and smooth, or the way her close white +sleeves came down to meet her pretty hands, or the way her shining hair +sprang from her forehead. Also the smooth creaminess of her clear skin +may have had something to do with it. But privately, I think it was due +to the way she wore her shirtwaists. Miss Gussie Fink could wear a +starched white shirtwaist under a close-fitting winter coat, remove the +coat, run her right forefinger along her collar's edge and her left thumb +along the back of her belt and disclose to the admiring world a blouse as +unwrinkled and unsullied as though it had just come from her own skilful +hands at the ironing board. Miss Gussie Fink was so innately, +flagrantly, beautifully clean-looking that—well, there must be a stop to +this description. +</P> + +<P> +She was the kind of girl you'd like to see behind the counter of your +favorite delicatessen, knowing that you need not shudder as her fingers +touch your Sunday night supper slices of tongue, and Swiss cheese, and +ham. No girl had ever dreamed of refusing to allow Gussie to borrow her +chamois for a second. +</P> + +<P> +To-night Miss Fink had come on at 10 P.M., which was just two hours later +than usual. She knew that she was to work until 6 A.M., which may have +accounted for the fact that she displayed very little of what the fans +call ginger as she removed her hat and coat and hung them on the hook +behind the desk. The prospect of that all-night, eight-hour stretch may +have accounted for it, I say. But privately, and entre nous, it didn't. +For here you must know of Heiny. Heiny, alas! now Henri. +</P> + +<P> +Until two weeks ago Henri had been Heiny and Miss Fink had been Kid. +When Henri had been Heiny he had worked in the kitchen at many things, +but always with a loving eye on Miss Gussie Fink. Then one wild night +there had been a waiters' strike—wages or hours or tips or all three. +In the confusion that followed Heiny had been pressed into service and a +chopped coat. He had fitted into both with unbelievable nicety, proving +that waiters are born, not made. Those little tricks and foibles that +are characteristic of the genus waiter seemed to envelop him as though a +fairy garment had fallen upon his shoulders. The folded napkin under his +left arm seemed to have been placed there by nature, so perfectly did it +fit into place. The ghostly tread, the little whisking skip, the +half-simper, the deferential bend that had in it at the same time +something of insolence, all were there; the very "Yes, miss," and "Very +good, sir," rose automatically and correctly to his untrained lips. +Cinderella rising resplendent from her ash-strewn hearth was not more +completely transformed than Heiny in his role of Henri. And with the +transformation Miss Gussie Fink had been left behind her desk +disconsolate. +</P> + +<P> +Kitchens are as quick to seize upon these things and gossip about them as +drawing rooms are. And because Miss Gussie Fink had always worn a little +air of aloofness to all except Heiny, the kitchen was the more eager to +make the most of its morsel. Each turned it over under his tongue—Tony, +the Crook, whom Miss Fink had scorned; Francois, the entree cook, who +often forgot he was married; Miss Sweeney, the bar-checker, who was +jealous of Miss Fink's complexion. Miss Fink heard, and said nothing. +She only knew that there would be no dear figure waiting for her when the +night's work was done. For two weeks now she had put on her hat and coat +and gone her way at one o'clock alone. She discovered that to be taken +home night after night under Heiny's tender escort had taught her a +ridiculous terror of the streets at night now that she was without +protection. Always the short walk from the car to the flat where Miss +Fink lived with her mother had been a glorious, star-lit, all too brief +moment. Now it was an endless and terrifying trial, a thing of shivers +and dread, fraught with horror of passing the alley just back of +Cassidey's buffet. There had even been certain little half-serious, +half-jesting talks about the future into which there had entered the +subject of a little delicatessen and restaurant in a desirable +neighborhood, with Heiny in the kitchen, and a certain blonde, neat, +white-shirtwaisted person in charge of the desk and front shop. +</P> + +<P> +She and her mother had always gone through a little formula upon Miss +Fink's return from work. They never used it now. Gussie's mother was a +real mother—the kind that wakes up when you come home. +</P> + +<P> +"That you, Gussie?" Ma Fink would call from the bedroom, at the sound of +the key in the lock. +</P> + +<P> +"It's me, ma." +</P> + +<P> +"Heiny bring you home?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," happily. +</P> + +<P> +"There's a bit of sausage left, and some pie if——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I ain't hungry. We stopped at Joey's downtown and had a cup of +coffee and a ham on rye. Did you remember to put out the milk bottle?" +</P> + +<P> +For two weeks there had been none of that. Gussie had learned to creep +silently into bed, and her mother, being a mother, feigned sleep. +</P> + +<P> +To-night at her desk Miss Gussie Fink seemed a shade cooler, more +self-contained, and daisylike than ever. From somewhere at the back of +her head she could see that Heiny was avoiding her desk and was using the +services of the checker at the other end of the room. And even as the +poison of this was eating into her heart she was tapping her forefinger +imperatively on the desk before her and saying to Tony, the Crook: +</P> + +<P> +"Down on the table with that tray, Tony—flat. This may be a busy little +New Year's Eve, but you can't come any of your sleight-of-hand stuff on +me." For Tony had a little trick of concealing a dollar-and-a-quarter +sirloin by the simple method of slapping the platter close to the +underside of his tray and holding it there with long, lean fingers +outspread, the entire bit of knavery being concealed in the folds of a +flowing white napkin in the hand that balanced the tray. Into Tony's +eyes there came a baleful gleam. His lean jaw jutted out threateningly. +</P> + +<P> +"You're the real Weissenheimer kid, ain't you?" he sneered. "Never mind. +I'll get you at recess." +</P> + +<P> +"Some day," drawled Miss Fink, checking the steak, "the house'll get wise +to your stuff and then you'll have to go back to the coal wagon. I know +so much about you it's beginning to make me uncomfortable. I hate to +carry around a burden of crime." +</P> + +<P> +"You're a sorehead because Heiny turned you down and now——" +</P> + +<P> +"Move on there!" snapped Miss Fink, "or I'll call the steward to settle +you. Maybe he'd be interested to know that you've been counting in the +date and your waiter's number, and adding 'em in at the bottom of your +check." +</P> + +<P> +Tony, the Crook, turned and skimmed away toward the dining-room, but the +taste of victory was bitter in Miss Fink's mouth. +</P> + +<P> +Midnight struck. There came from the direction of the Pink Fountain Room +a clamor and din which penetrated the thickness of the padded doors that +separated the dining-room from the kitchen beyond. The sound rose and +swelled above the blare of the orchestra. Chairs scraped on the marble +floor as hundreds rose to their feet. The sound of clinking glasses +became as the jangling of a hundred bells. There came the sharp spat of +hand-clapping, then cheers, yells, huzzas. Through the swinging doors at +the end of the long passageway Miss Fink could catch glimpses of dazzling +color, of shimmering gowns, of bare arms uplifted, of flowers, and +plumes, and jewels, with the rosy light of the famed pink fountain +casting a gracious glow over all. Once she saw a tall young fellow throw +his arm about the shoulder of a glorious creature at the next table, and +though the door swung shut before she could see it, Miss Fink knew that +he had kissed her. +</P> + +<P> +There were no New Year's greetings in the kitchen back of the Pink +Fountain Room. It was the busiest moment in all that busy night. The +heat of the ovens was so intense that it could be felt as far as Miss +Fink's remote corner. The swinging doors between dining-room and kitchen +were never still. A steady stream of waiters made for the steam tables +before which the white-clad chefs stood ladling, carving, basting, +serving, gave their orders, received them, stopped at the checking-desk, +and sped dining-roomward again. Tony, the Crook, was cursing at one of +the little Polish vegetable girls who had not been quick enough about the +garnishing of a salad, and she was saying, over and over again, in her +thick tongue: +</P> + +<P> +"Aw, shod op yur mout'!" +</P> + +<P> +The thud-thud of Miss Fink's checking-stamp kept time to flying +footsteps, but even as her practised eye swept over the tray before her +she saw the steward direct Henri toward her desk, just as he was about to +head in the direction of the minor checking-desk. Beneath downcast lids +she saw him coming. There was about Henri to-night a certain radiance, a +sort of electrical elasticity, so nimble, so tireless, so exuberant was +he. In the eyes of Miss Gussie Fink he looked heartbreakingly handsome +in his waiter's uniform—handsome, distinguished, remote, and infinitely +desirable. And just behind him, revenge in his eye, came Tony. +</P> + +<P> +The flat surface of the desk received Henri's tray. Miss Fink regarded +it with a cold and business-like stare. Henri whipped his napkin from +under his left arm and began to remove covers, dexterously. Off came the +first silver, dome-shaped top. +</P> + +<P> +"Guinea hen," said Henri. +</P> + +<P> +"I seen her lookin' at you when you served the little necks," came from +Tony, as though continuing a conversation begun in some past moment of +pause, "and she's some lovely doll, believe me." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Fink scanned the guinea hen thoroughly, but with a detached air, and +selected the proper stamp from the box at her elbow. Thump! On the +broad pasteboard sheet before her appeared the figures $1.75 after +Henri's number. +</P> + +<P> +"Think so?" grinned Henri, and removed another cover. "One candied +sweets." +</P> + +<P> +"I bet some day we'll see you in the Sunday papers, Heiny," went on Tony, +"with a piece about handsome waiter runnin' away with beautiful s'ciety +girl. Say; you're too perfect even for a waiter." +</P> + +<P> +Thump! Thirty cents. +</P> + +<P> +"Quit your kiddin'," said the flattered Henri. "One endive, French +dressing." +</P> + +<P> +Thump! "Next!" said Miss Fink, dispassionately, yawned, and smiled +fleetingly at the entree cook who wasn't looking her way. Then, as Tony +slid his tray toward her: "How's business, Tony? H'm? How many two-bit +cigar bands have you slipped onto your own private collection of nickel +straights and made a twenty-cent rake-off?" +</P> + +<P> +But there was a mist in the bright brown eyes as Tony the Crook turned +away with his tray. In spite of the satisfaction of having had the last +word, Miss Fink knew in her heart that Tony had "got her at recess," as +he had said he would. +</P> + +<P> +Things were slowing up for Miss Fink. The stream of hurrying waiters was +turned in the direction of the kitchen bar now. From now on the eating +would be light, and the drinking heavy. Miss Fink, with time hanging +heavy, found herself blinking down at the figures stamped on the +pasteboard sheet before her, and in spite of the blinking, two marks that +never were intended for a checker's report splashed down just over the +$1.75 after Henri's number. A lovely doll! And she had gazed at Heiny. +Well, that was to be expected. No woman could gaze unmoved upon Heiny. +"A lovely doll—" +</P> + +<P> +"Hi, Miss Fink!" it was the steward's voice. "We need you over in the +bar to help Miss Sweeney check the drinks. They're coming too swift for +her. The eating will be light from now on; just a little something salty +now and then." +</P> + +<P> +So Miss Fink dabbed covertly at her eyes and betook herself out of the +atmosphere of roasting, and broiling, and frying, and stewing; away from +the sight of great copper kettles, and glowing coals and hissing pans, +into a little world fragrant with mint, breathing of orange and lemon +peel, perfumed with pineapple, redolent of cinnamon and clove, reeking +with things spirituous. Here the splutter of the broiler was replaced by +the hiss of the siphon, and the pop-pop of corks, and the tinkle and +clink of ice against glass. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, dearie!" cooed Miss Sweeney, in greeting, staring hard at the +suspicious redness around Miss Fink's eyelids. "Ain't you sweet to come +over here in the headache department and help me out! Here's the wine +list. You'll prob'ly need it. Say, who do you suppose invented New +Year's Eve? They must of had a imagination like a Greek 'bus boy. I'm +limp as a rag now, and it's only two-thirty. I've got a regular cramp in +my wrist from checkin' quarts. Say, did you hear about Heiny's crowd?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Miss Fink, evenly, and began to study the first page of the +wine list under the heading "Champagnes of Noted Vintages." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," went on Miss Sweeney's little thin, malicious voice, "he's fell +in soft. There's a table of three, and they're drinkin' 1874 Imperial +Crown at twelve dollars per, like it was Waukesha ale. And every time +they finish a bottle one of the guys pays for it with a brand new ten and +a brand new five and tells Heiny to keep the change. Can you beat it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I hope," said Miss Fink, pleasantly, "that the supply of 1874 will hold +out till morning. I'd hate to see them have to come down to ten dollar +wine. Here you, Tony! Come back here! I may be a new hand in this +department but I'm not so green that you can put a gold label over on me +as a yellow label. Notice that I'm checking you another fifty cents." +</P> + +<P> +"Ain't he the grafter!" laughed Miss Sweeney. She leaned toward Miss +Fink and lowered her voice discreetly. "Though I'll say this for'm. If +you let him get away with it now an' then, he'll split even with you. +H'm? O, well, now, don't get so high and mighty. The management expects +it in this department. That's why they pay starvation wages." +</P> + +<P> +An unusual note of color crept into Miss Gussie Fink's smooth cheek. It +deepened and glowed as Heiny darted around the corner and up to the bar. +There was about him an air of suppressed excitement—suppressed, because +Heiny was too perfect a waiter to display emotion. +</P> + +<P> +"Not another!" chanted the bartenders, in chorus. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," answered Henri, solemnly, and waited while the wine cellar was +made to relinquish another rare jewel. +</P> + +<P> +"O, you Heiny!" called Miss Sweeney, "tell us what she looks like. If I +had time I'd take a peek myself. From what Tony says she must look +something like Maxine Elliot, only brighter." +</P> + +<P> +Henri turned. He saw Miss Fink. A curious little expression came into +his eyes—a Heiny look, it might have been called, as he regarded his +erstwhile sweetheart's unruffled attire, and clear skin, and steady eye +and glossy hair. She was looking past him in that baffling, maddening +way that angry women have. Some of Henri's poise seemed to desert him in +that moment. He appeared a shade less debonair as he received the +precious bottle from the wine man's hands. He made for Miss Fink's desk +and stood watching her while she checked his order. At the door he +turned and looked over his shoulder at Miss Sweeney. +</P> + +<P> +"Some time," he said, deliberately, "when there's no ladies around, I'll +tell you what I think she looks like." +</P> + +<P> +And the little glow of color in Miss Gussic Fink's smooth cheek became a +crimson flood that swept from brow to throat. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well," snickered Miss Sweeney, to hide her own discomfiture, "this +is little Heiny's first New Year's Eve in the dining-room. Honest, I +b'lieve he's shocked. He don't realize that celebratin' New Year's Eve +is like eatin' oranges. You got to let go your dignity t' really enjoy +'em." +</P> + +<P> +Three times more did Henri enter and demand a bottle of the famous +vintage, and each time he seemed a shade less buoyant. His elation +diminished as his tips grew greater until, as he drew up at the bar at +six o'clock, he seemed wrapped in impenetrable gloom. +</P> + +<P> +"Them hawgs sousin' yet?" shrilled Miss Sweeney. She and Miss Fink had +climbed down from their high stools, and were preparing to leave. Henri +nodded, drearily, and disappeared in the direction of the Pink Fountain +Room. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Fink walked back to her own desk in the corner near the dining-room +door. She took her hat off the hook, and stood regarding it, +thoughtfully. Then, with a little air of decision, she turned and walked +swiftly down the passageway that separated dining-room from kitchen. +Tillie, the scrub-woman, was down on her hands and knees in one corner of +the passage. She was one of a small army of cleaners that had begun the +work of clearing away the debris of the long night's revel. Miss Fink +lifted her neat skirts high as she tip-toed through the little soapy pool +that followed in the wake of Tillie, the scrub-woman. She opened the +swinging doors a cautious little crack and peered in. What she saw was +not pretty. If the words sordid and bacchanalian had been part of Miss +Fink's vocabulary they would have risen to her lips then. The crowd had +gone. The great room contained not more than half a dozen people. +Confetti littered the floor. Here and there a napkin, crushed and +bedraggled into an unrecognizable ball, lay under a table. From an +overturned bottle the dregs were dripping drearily. The air was stale, +stifling, poisonous. +</P> + +<P> +At a little table in the center of the room Henri's three were still +drinking. They were doing it in a dreadful and businesslike way. There +were two men and one woman. The faces of all three were mahogany colored +and expressionless. There was about them an awful sort of stillness. +Something in the sight seemed to sicken Gussie Fink. It came to her that +the wintry air outdoors must be gloriously sweet, and cool, and clean in +contrast to this. She was about to turn away, with a last look at Heiny +yawning behind his hand, when suddenly the woman rose unsteadily to her +feet, balancing herself with her finger tips on the table. She raised +her head and stared across the room with dull, unseeing eyes, and licked +her lips with her tongue. Then she turned and walked half a dozen paces, +screamed once with horrible shrillness, and crashed to the floor. She +lay there in a still, crumpled heap, the folds of her exquisite gown +rippling to meet a little stale pool of wine that had splashed from some +broken glass. Then this happened. Three people ran toward the woman on +the floor, and two people ran past her and out of the room. The two who +ran away were the men with whom she had been drinking, and they were not +seen again. The three who ran toward her were Henri, the waiter, Miss +Gussie Fink, checker, and Tillie, the scrub-woman. Henri and Miss Fink +reached her first. Tillie, the scrub-woman, was a close third. Miss +Gussie Fink made as though to slip her arm under the poor bruised head, +but Henri caught her wrist fiercely (for a waiter) and pulled her to her +feet almost roughly. +</P> + +<P> +"You leave her alone, Kid," he commanded. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Gussie Fink stared, indignation choking her utterance. And as she +stared the fierce light in Henri's eyes was replaced by the light of +tenderness. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll tend to her," said Henri; "she ain't fit for you to touch. I +wouldn't let you soil your hands on such truck." And while Gussie still +stared he grasped the unconscious woman by the shoulders, while another +waiter grasped her ankles, with Tillie, the scrub-woman, arranging her +draperies pityingly around her, and together they carried her out of the +dining-room to a room beyond. +</P> + +<P> +Back in the kitchen Miss Gussie Fink was preparing to don her hat, but +she was experiencing some difficulty because of the way in which her +fingers persisted in trembling. Her face was turned away from the +swinging doors, but she knew when Henri came in. He stood just behind +her, in silence. When she turned to face him she found Henri looking at +her, and as he looked all the Heiny in him came to the surface and shone +in his eyes. He looked long and silently at Miss Gussie Fink—at the +sane, simple, wholesomeness of her, at her clear brown eyes, at her white +forehead from which the shining hair sprang away in such a delicate line, +at her immaculately white shirtwaist, and her smooth, snug-fitting collar +that came up to the lobes of her little pink ears, at her creamy skin, at +her trim belt. He looked as one who would rest his eyes—eyes weary of +gazing upon satins, and jewels, and rouge, and carmine, and white arms, +and bosoms. +</P> + +<P> +"Gee, Kid! You look good to me," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Do I—Heiny?" whispered Miss Fink. +</P> + +<P> +"Believe me!" replied Heiny, fervently. "It was just a case of swelled +head. Forget it, will you? Say, that gang in there to-night—why, say, +that gang——" +</P> + +<P> +"I know," interrupted Miss Fink. +</P> + +<P> +"Going home?" asked Heiny. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Suppose we have a bite of something to eat first," suggested Heiny. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Fink glanced round the great, deserted kitchen. As she gazed a +little expression of disgust wrinkled her pretty nose—the nose that +perforce had sniffed the scent of so many rare and exquisite dishes. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," she assented, joyously, "but not here. Let's go around the +corner to Joey's. I could get real chummy with a cup of good hot coffee +and a ham on rye." +</P> + +<P> +He helped her on with her coat, and if his hands rested a moment on her +shoulders who was there to see it? A few sleepy, wan-eyed waiters and +Tillie, the scrub-woman. Together they started toward the door. Tillie, +the scrubwoman, had worked her wet way out of the passage and into the +kitchen proper. She and her pail blocked their way. She was sopping up +a soapy pool with an all-encompassing gray scrub-rag. Heiny and Gussie +stopped a moment perforce to watch her. It was rather fascinating to see +how that artful scrub-rag craftily closed in upon the soapy pool until it +engulfed it. Tillie sat back on her knees to wring out the water-soaked +rag. There was something pleasing in the sight. Tillie's blue calico +was faded white in patches and at the knees it was dark with soapy water. +Her shoes were turned up ludicrously at the toes, as scrub-women's shoes +always are. Tillie's thin hair was wadded back into a moist knob at the +back and skewered with a gray-black hairpin. From her parboiled, +shriveled fingers to her ruddy, perspiring face there was nothing of +grace or beauty about Tillie. And yet Heiny found something pleasing +there. He could not have told you why, so how can I, unless to say that +it was, perhaps, for much the same reason that we rejoice in the +wholesome, safe, reassuring feel of the gray woolen blanket on our bed +when we wake from a horrid dream. +</P> + +<P> +"A Happy New Year to you," said Heiny gravely, and took his hand out of +his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +Tillie's moist right hand closed over something. She smiled so that one +saw all her broken black teeth. +</P> + +<P> +"The same t' you," said Tillie. "The same t' you." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ONE OF THE OLD GIRLS +</H3> + +<P> +All of those ladies who end their conversation with you by wearily +suggesting that you go down to the basement to find what you seek, do not +receive a meager seven dollars a week as a reward for their efforts. +Neither are they all obliged to climb five weary flights of stairs to +reach the dismal little court room which is their home, and there are +several who need not walk thirty-three blocks to save carfare, only to +spend wretched evenings washing out handkerchiefs and stockings in the +cracked little washbowl, while one ear is cocked for the stealthy tread +of the Lady Who Objects. +</P> + +<P> +The earnest compiler of working girls' budgets would pass Effie Bauer +hurriedly by. Effie's budget bulged here and there with such pathetic +items as hand-embroidered blouses, thick club steaks, and parquet tickets +for Maude Adams. That you may visualize her at once I may say that Effie +looked twenty-four—from the rear (all women do in these days of girlish +simplicity in hats and tailor-mades); her skirts never sagged, her +shirtwaists were marvels of plainness and fit, and her switch had cost +her sixteen dollars, wholesale (a lady friend in the business). Oh, +there was nothing tragic about Effie. She had a plump, assured style, a +keen blue eye, a gift of repartee, and a way of doing her hair so that +the gray at the sides scarcely showed at all. Also a knowledge of +corsets that had placed her at the buying end of that important +department at Spiegel's. Effie knew to the minute when coral beads went +out and pearl beads came in, and just by looking at her blouses you could +tell when Cluny died and Irish was born. Meeting Effie on the street, +you would have put her down as one of the many well-dressed, +prosperous-looking women shoppers—if you hadn't looked at her feet. +Veteran clerks and policemen cannot disguise their feet. +</P> + +<P> +Effie Bauer's reason for not marrying when a girl was the same as that of +most of the capable, wise-eyed, good-looking women one finds at the head +of departments. She had not had a chance. If Effie had been as +attractive at twenty as she was at—there, we won't betray confidences. +Still, it is certain that if Effie had been as attractive when a young +girl as she was when an old girl, she never would have been an old girl +and head of Spiegel's corset department at a salary of something very +comfortably over one hundred and twenty-five a month (and commissions). +Effie had improved with the years, and ripened with experience. She knew +her value. At twenty she had been pale, anaemic and bony, with a +startled-faun manner and bad teeth. Years of saleswomanship had +broadened her, mentally and physically, until she possessed a wide and +varied knowledge of that great and diversified subject known as human +nature. She knew human nature all the way from the fifty-nine-cent +girdles to the twenty-five-dollar made-to-orders. And if the years had +brought, among other things, a certain hardness about the jaw and a line +or two at the corners of the eyes, it was not surprising. You can't rub +up against the sharp edges of this world and expect to come out without a +scratch or so. +</P> + +<P> +So much for Effie. Enter the hero. Webster defines a hero in romance as +the person who has the principal share in the transactions related. He +says nothing which would debar a gentleman just because he may be a +trifle bald and in the habit of combing his hair over the thin spot, and +he raises no objections to a matter of thickness and color in the region +of the back of the neck. Therefore Gabe I. Marks qualifies. Gabe was +the gentleman about whom Effie permitted herself to be guyed. He came to +Chicago on business four times a year, and he always took Effie to the +theater, and to supper afterward. On those occasions, Effie's gown, wrap +and hat were as correct in texture, lines, and paradise aigrettes as +those of any of her non-working sisters about her. On the morning +following these excursions into Lobsterdom, Effie would confide to her +friend, Miss Weinstein, of the lingeries and negligees: +</P> + +<P> +"I was out with my friend, Mr. Marks, last evening. We went to Rector's +after the show. Oh, well, it takes a New Yorker to know how. Honestly, +I feel like a queen when I go out with him. H'm? Oh, nothing like that, +girlie. I never could see that marriage thing. Just good friends." +</P> + +<P> +Gabe had been coming to Chicago four times a year for six years. Six +times four are twenty-four. And one is twenty-five. Gabe's last visit +made the twenty-fifth. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Effie," Gabe said when the evening's entertainment had reached the +restaurant stage, "this is our twenty-fifth anniversary. It's our silver +wedding, without the silver and the wedding. We'll have a bottle of +champagne. That makes it almost legal. And then suppose we finish up by +having the wedding. The silver can be omitted." +</P> + +<P> +Effie had been humming with the orchestra, holding a lobster claw in one +hand and wielding the little two-pronged fork with the other. She +dropped claw, fork, and popular air to stare open-mouthed at Gabe. Then +a slow, uncertain smile crept about her lips, although her eyes were +still unsmiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Stop your joking, Gabie," she said. "Some day you'll say those things +to the wrong lady, and then you'll have a breach-of-promise suit on your +hands." +</P> + +<P> +"This ain't no joke, Effie," Gabe had replied. "Not with me it ain't. As +long as my mother selig lived I wouldn't ever marry a Goy. It would have +broken her heart. I was a good son to her, and good sons make good +husbands, they say. Well, Effie, you want to try it out?" +</P> + +<P> +There was something almost solemn in Effie's tone and expression. +"Gabie," she said slowly, "you're the first man that's ever asked me to +marry him." +</P> + +<P> +"That goes double," answered Gabe. +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks," said Effie. "That makes it all the nicer." +</P> + +<P> +"Then——" Gabe's face was radiant. But Effie shook her head quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"You're just twenty years late," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Late!" expostulated Gabe. "I ain't no dead one yet." +</P> + +<P> +Effie pushed her plate away with a little air of decision, folded her +plump arms on the table, and, leaning forward, looked Gabe I. Marks +squarely in the eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Gabie," she said gently, "I'll bet you haven't got a hundred dollars in +the bank——" +</P> + +<P> +"But——" interrupted Gabe. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait a minute. I know you boys on the road. Besides your diamond scarf +pin and your ring and watch, have you got a cent over your salary? Nix. +You carry just about enough insurance to bury you, don't you? You're +fifty years old if you're a minute, Gabie, and if I ain't mistaken you'd +have a pretty hard time of it getting ten thousand dollars' insurance +after the doctors got through with you. Twenty-five years of pinochle +and poker and the fat of the land haven't added up any bumps in the old +stocking under the mattress." +</P> + +<P> +"Say, looka here," objected Gabe, more red-faced than usual, "I didn't +know was proposing to no Senatorial investigating committee. Say, you +talk about them foreign noblemen being mercenary! Why, they ain't in it +with you girls to-day. A feller is got to propose to you with his bank +book in one hand and a bunch of life-insurance policies in the other. +You're right; I ain't saved much. But Ma selig always had everything she +wanted. Say, when a man marries it's different. He begins to save." +</P> + +<P> +"There!" said Effie quickly. "That's just it. Twenty years ago I'd have +been glad and willing to start like that, saving and scrimping and loving +a man, and looking forward to the time when four figures showed up in the +bank account where but three bloomed before. I've got what they call the +home instinct. Give me a yard or so of cretonne, and a photo of my +married sister down in Iowa, and I can make even a boarding-house inside +bedroom look like a place where a human being could live. If I had been +as wise at twenty as I am now, Gabie, I could have married any man I +pleased. But I was what they call capable. And men aren't marrying +capable girls. They pick little yellow-headed, blue-eyed idiots that +don't know a lamb stew from a soup bone when they see it. Well, Mr. Man +didn't show up, and I started in to clerk at six per. I'm earning as +much as you are now. More. Now, don't misunderstand me, Gabe. I'm not +throwing bouquets at myself. I'm not that kind of a girl. But I could +sell a style 743 Slimshape to the Venus de Milo herself. The Lord knows +she needed one, with those hips of hers. I worked my way up, alone. I'm +used to it. I like the excitement down at the store. I'm used to +luxuries. I guess if I was a man I'd be the kind thy call a good +provider—the kind that opens wine every time there's half an excuse for +it, and when he dies his widow has to take in boarders. And, Gabe, after +you've worn tailored suits every year for a dozen years, you can't go +back to twenty-five-dollar ready-mades and be happy." +</P> + +<P> +"You could if you loved a man," said Gabe stubbornly. +</P> + +<P> +The hard lines around the jaw and the experienced lines about the eyes +seemed suddenly to stand out on Effie's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Love's young dream is all right. But you've reached the age when you +let your cigar ash dribble down onto your vest. Now me, I've got a +kimono nature but a straight-front job, and it's kept me young. Young! +I've got to be. That's my stock in trade. You see, Gabie, we're just +twenty years late, both of us. They're not going to boost your salary. +These days they're looking for kids on the road—live wires, with a lot +of nerve and a quick come-back. They don't want old-timers. Why, say, +Gabie, if I was to tell you what I spend in face powder and toilette +water and hairpins alone, you'd think I'd made a mistake and given you +the butcher bill instead. And I'm no professional beauty, either. Only +it takes money to look cleaned and pressed in this town." +</P> + +<P> +In the seclusion of the cafe corner, Gabe laid one plump, highly +manicured hand on Effie's smooth arm. "You wouldn't need to stay young +for me, Effie. I like you just as you are, with out the powder, or the +toilette water, or the hair-pins." +</P> + +<P> +His red, good-natured face had an expression upon it that was touchingly +near patient resignation as he looked up into Effie's sparkling +countenance. "You never looked so good to me as you do this minute, old +girl. And if the day comes when you get lonesome—or change your +mind—or——" +</P> + +<P> +Effie shook her head, and started to draw on her long white gloves. "I +guess I haven't refused you the way the dames in the novels do it. Maybe +it's because I've had so little practice. But I want to say this, Gabe. +Thank God I don't have to die knowing that no man ever wanted me to be +his wife. Honestly, I'm that grateful that I'd marry you in a minute if +I didn't like you so well." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be back in three months, like always," was all that Gabe said. "I +ain't going to write. When I get here we'll just take in a show, and the +younger you look the better I'll like it." +</P> + +<P> +But on the occasion of Gabe's spring trip he encountered a statuesque +blonde person where Effie had been wont to reign. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss—er Bauer out of town?" +</P> + +<P> +The statue melted a trifle in the sunshine of Gabe's ingratiating smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Bauer's ill," the statue informed him, using a heavy Eastern +accent. "Anything I can do for you? I'm taking her place." +</P> + +<P> +"Why—ah—not exactly; no," said Gabe. "Just a temporary indisposition, +I suppose?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you wouldn't hardly call it that, seeing that she's been sick with +typhoid for seven weeks." +</P> + +<P> +"Typhoid!" shouted Gabe. +</P> + +<P> +"While I'm not in the habit of asking gentlemen their names, I'd like to +inquire if yours happens to be Marks—Gabe I. Marks?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," said Gabe. "That's me." +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Bauer's nurse telephones down last week that if a gentleman named +Marks—Gabe I. Marks—drops in and inquires for Miss Bauer, I'm to tell +him that she's changed her mind." +</P> + +<P> +On the way from Spiegel's corset department to the car, Gabe stopped only +for a bunch of violets. Effie's apartment house reached, he sent up his +card, the violets, and a message that the gentleman was waiting. There +came back a reply that sent Gabie up before the violets were relieved of +their first layer of tissue paper. +</P> + +<P> +Effie was sitting in a deep chair by the window, a flowered quilt bunched +about her shoulders, her feet in gray knitted bedroom slippers. She +looked every minute of her age, and she knew it, and didn't care. The +hand that she held out to Gabe was a limp, white, fleshless thing that +seemed to bear no relation to the plump, firm member that Gabe had +pressed on so many previous occasions. +</P> + +<P> +Gabe stared at this pale wraith in a moment of alarm and dismay. Then: +</P> + +<P> +"You're looking—great!" he stammered. "Great! Nobody'd believe you'd +been sick a minute. Guess you've just been stalling for a beauty rest, +what?" +</P> + +<P> +Effie smiled a tired little smile, and shook her head slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"You're a good kid, Gabie, to lie like that just to make me feel good. +But my nurse left yesterday and I had my first real squint at myself in +the mirror. She wouldn't let me look while she was here. After what I +saw staring back at me from that glass a whole ballroom full of French +courtiers whispering sweet nothings in my ear couldn't make me believe +that I look like anything but a hunk of Roquefort, green spots included. +When I think of how my clothes won't fit it makes me shiver." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you'll soon be back at the store as good as new. They fatten up +something wonderful after typhoid. Why, I had a friend——" +</P> + +<P> +"Did you get my message?" interrupted Effie. +</P> + +<P> +"I was only talking to hide my nervousness," said Gabe, and started +forward. But Effie waved him away. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down," she said. "I've got something to say." She looked +thoughtfully down at one shining finger nail. Her lower lip was caught +between her teeth. When she looked up again her eyes were swimming in +tears. Gabe started forward again. Again Effie waved him away. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all right, Gabie. I don't blubber as a rule. This fever leaves +you as weak as a rag, and ready to cry if any one says 'Boo!' I've been +doing some high-pressure thinking since nursie left. Had plenty of time +to do it in, sitting here by this window all day. My land! I never knew +there was so much time. There's been days when I haven't talked to a +soul, except the nurse and the chambermaid. Lonesome! Say, the amount +of petting I could stand would surprise you. Of course, my nurse was a +perfectly good nurse—at twenty-five per. But I was just a case to her. +You can't expect a nurse to ooze sympathy over an old maid with the +fever. I tell you I was dying to have some one say 'Sh-sh-sh!' when +there was a noise, just to show they were interested. Whenever I'd moan +the nurse would come over and stick a thermometer in my mouth and write +something down on a chart. The boys and girls at the store sent flowers. +They'd have done the same if I'd died. When the fever broke I just used +to lie there and dream, not feeling anything in particular, and not +caring much whether it was day or night. Know what I mean?" +</P> + +<P> +Gabie shook a sympathetic head. +</P> + +<P> +There was a little silence. Then Effie went on. "I used to think I was +pretty smart, earning my own good living, dressing as well as the next +one, and able to spend my vacation in Atlantic City if I wanted to. I +didn't know I was missing anything. But while I was sick I got to +wishing that there was somebody that belonged to me. Somebody to worry +about me, and to sit up nights—somebody that just naturally felt they +had to come tiptoeing into my room every three or four minutes to see if +I was sleeping, or had enough covers on, or wanted a drink, or something. +I got to thinking what it would have been like if I had a husband and +a—home. You'll think I'm daffy, maybe." +</P> + +<P> +Gabie took Effie's limp white hand in his, and stroked it gently. +Effie's face was turned away from him, toward the noisy street. +</P> + +<P> +"I used to imagine how he'd come home at six, stamping his feet, maybe, +and making a lot of noise the way men do. And then he'd remember, and +come creaking up the steps, and he'd stick his head in at the door in the +funny, awkward, pathetic way men have in a sick room. And he'd say, +'How's the old girl to-night? I'd better not come near you now, puss, +because I'll bring the cold with me. Been lonesome for your old man?' +</P> + +<P> +"And I'd say, 'Oh, I don't care how cold you are, dear. The nurse is +downstairs, getting my supper ready.' +</P> + +<P> +"And then he'd come tiptoeing over to my bed, and stoop down, and kiss +me, and his face would be all cold, and rough, and his mustache would be +wet, and he'd smell out-doorsy and smoky, the way husbands do when they +come in. And I'd reach up and pat his cheek and say, 'You need a shave, +old man.' +</P> + +<P> +"'I know it,' he'd say, rubbing his cheek up against mine. +</P> + +<P> +"'Hurry up and wash, now. Supper'll be ready.' +</P> + +<P> +"'Where are the kids?' he'd ask. 'The house is as quiet as the grave. +Hurry up and get well, kid. It's darn lonesome without you at the table, +and the children's manners are getting something awful, and I never can +find my shirts. Lordy, I guess we won't celebrate when you get up! +Can't you eat a little something nourishing for supper—beefsteak, or a +good plate of soup, or something?' +</P> + +<P> +"Men are like that, you know. So I'd say then: 'Run along, you old +goose! You'll be suggesting sauerkraut and wieners next. Don't you let +Millie have any marmalade to-night. She's got a spoiled stomach.' +</P> + +<P> +"And then he'd pound off down the hall to wash up, and I'd shut my eyes, +and smile to myself, and everything would be all right, because he was +home." +</P> + +<P> +There was a long silence. Effie's eyes were closed. But two great tears +stole out from beneath each lid and coursed their slow way down her thin +cheeks. She did not raise her hand to wipe them away. +</P> + +<P> +Gabie's other hand reached over and met the one that already clasped +Effie's. +</P> + +<P> +"Effie," he said, in a voice that was as hoarse as it was gentle. +</P> + +<P> +"H'm?" said Effie. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you marry me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't wonder," replied Effie, opening her eyes. "No, don't kiss +me. You might catch something. But say, reach up and smooth my hair +away from my forehead, will you, and call me a couple of fool names. I +don't care how clumsy you are about it. I could stand an awful fuss +being made over me, without being spoiled any." +</P> + +<P> +Three weeks later Effie was back at the store. Her skirt didn't fit in +the back, and the little hollow places in her cheeks did not take the +customary dash of rouge as well as when they had been plumper. She held +a little impromptu reception that extended down as far as the lingeries +and up as far as the rugs. The old sparkle came back to Effie's eye. +The old assurance and vigor seemed to return. By the time that Miss +Weinstein, of the French lingeries, arrived, breathless, to greet her +Effie was herself again. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you're not a sight for sore eyes, dearie," exclaimed Miss +Weinstein. "My goodness, how grand and thin you are! I'd be willing to +take a course in typhoid myself, if I thought I could lose twenty-five +pounds." +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't a rag that fits me," Effie announced proudly. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Weinstein lowered her voice discreetly. "Dearie, can you come down +to my department for a minute? We're going to have a sale on imported +lawnjerie blouses, slightly soiled, from nine to eleven to-morrow. +There's one you positively must see. Hand-embroidered, Irish motifs, and +eyeleted from soup to nuts, and only eight-fifty." +</P> + +<P> +"I've got a fine chance of buying hand-made waists, no matter how +slightly soiled," Effie made answer, "with a doctor and nurse's bill as +long as your arm." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, run along!" scoffed Miss Weinstein. "A person would think you had a +husband to get a grouch every time you get reckless to the extent of a +new waist. You're your own boss. And you know your credit's good. +Honestly, it would be a shame to let this chance slip. You're not +getting tight in your old age, are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"N-no," faltered Effie, "but——" +</P> + +<P> +"Then come on," urged Miss Weinstein energetically. "And be thankful you +haven't got a man to raise the dickens when the bill comes in." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean that?" asked Effie slowly, fixing Miss Weinstein with a +thoughtful eye. +</P> + +<P> +"Surest thing you know. Say, girlie, let's go over to Klein's for lunch +this noon. They have pot roast with potato pfannkuchen on Tuesdays, and +we can split an order between us." +</P> + +<P> +"Hold that waist till to-morrow, will you?" said Effie. "I've made an +arrangement with a—friend that might make new clothes impossible just +now. But I'm going to wire my party that the arrangement is all off. +I've changed my mind. I ought to get an answer to-morrow. Did you say +it was a thirty-six?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MAYMEYS FROM CUBA +</H3> + +<P> +There is nothing new in this. It has all been done before. But tell me, +what is new? Does the aspiring and perspiring summer vaudeville artist +flatter himself that his stuff is going big? Then does the stout man +with the oyster-colored eyelids in the first row, left, turn his bullet +head on his fat-creased neck to remark huskily to his companion: +</P> + +<P> +"The hook for him. R-r-r-rotten! That last one was an old Weber'n +Fields' gag. They discarded it back in '91. Say, the good ones is all +dead, anyhow. Take old Salvini, now, and Dan Rice. Them was actors. +Come on out and have something." +</P> + +<P> +Does the short-story writer felicitate himself upon having discovered a +rare species in humanity's garden? The Blase Reader flips the pages +between his fingers, yawns, stretches, and remarks to his wife: +</P> + +<P> +"That's a clean lift from Kipling—or is it Conan Doyle? Anyway, I've +read something just like it before. Say, kid, guess what these magazine +guys get for a full page ad.? Nix. That's just like a woman. Three +thousand straight. Fact." +</P> + +<P> +To anticipate the delver into the past it may be stated that the plot of +this one originally appeared in the Eternal Best Seller, under the +heading, "He Asked You For Bread, and Ye Gave Him a Stone." There may be +those who could not have traced my plagiarism to its source. +</P> + +<P> +Although the Book has had an unprecedentedly long run it is said to be +less widely read than of yore. +</P> + +<P> +Even with this preparation I hesitate to confess that this is the story +of a hungry girl in a big city. Well, now, wait a minute. Conceding +that it has been done by every scribbler from tyro to best seller expert, +you will acknowledge that there is the possibility of a fresh +viewpoint—twist—what is it the sporting editors call it? Oh, +yes—slant. There is the possibility of getting a new slant on an old +idea. That may serve to deflect the line of the deadly parallel. +</P> + +<P> +Just off State Street there is a fruiterer and importer who ought to be +arrested for cruelty. His window is the most fascinating and the most +heartless in Chicago. A line of open-mouthed, wide-eyed gazers is always +to be found before it. Despair, wonder, envy, and rebellion smolder in +the eyes of those gazers. No shop window show should be so diabolically +set forth as to arouse such sensations in the breast of the beholder. It +is a work of art, that window; a breeder of anarchism, a destroyer of +contentment, a second feast of Tantalus. It boasts peaches, dewy and +golden, when peaches have no right to be; plethoric, purple bunches of +English hothouse grapes are there to taunt the ten-dollar-a-week clerk +whose sick wife should be in the hospital; strawberries glow therein when +shortcake is a last summer's memory, and forced cucumbers remind us that +we are taking ours in the form of dill pickles. There is, perhaps, a +choice head of cauliflower, so exquisite in its ivory and green +perfection as to be fit for a bride's bouquet; there are apples so +flawless that if the garden of Eden grew any as perfect it is small +wonder that Eve fell for them. +</P> + +<P> +There are fresh mushrooms, and jumbo cocoanuts, and green almonds; costly +things in beds of cotton nestle next to strange and marvelous things in +tissue, wrappings. Oh, that window is no place for the hungry, the +dissatisfied, or the man out of a job. When the air is filled with snow +there is that in the sight of muskmelons which incites crime. +</P> + +<P> +Queerly enough, the gazers before that window foot up the same, year in, +and year out, something after this fashion: +</P> + +<P> +Item: One anemic little milliner's apprentice in coat and shoes that +even her hat can't redeem. +</P> + +<P> +Item: One sandy-haired, gritty-complexioned man, with a drooping ragged +mustache, a tin dinner bucket, and lime on his boots. +</P> + +<P> +Item: One thin mail carrier with an empty mail sack, gaunt cheeks, and +an habitual droop to his left shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +Item: One errand boy troubled with a chronic sniffle, a shrill and +piping whistle, and a great deal of shuffling foot-work. +</P> + +<P> +Item: One negro wearing a spotted tan topcoat, frayed trousers and no +collar. His eyes seem all whites as he gazes. +</P> + +<P> +Enough of the window. But bear it in mind while we turn to Jennie. +Jennie's real name was Janet, and she was Scotch. Canny? Not +necessarily, or why should she have been hungry and out of a job in +January? +</P> + +<P> +Jennie stood in the row before the window, and stared. The longer she +stared the sharper grew the lines that fright and under-feeding had +chiseled about her nose, and mouth, and eyes. When your last meal is an +eighteen-hour-old memory, and when that memory has only near-coffee and a +roll to dwell on, there is something in the sight of January peaches and +great strawberries carelessly spilling out of a tipped box, just like +they do in the fruit picture on the dining-room wall, that is apt to +carve sharp lines in the corners of the face. +</P> + +<P> +The tragic line dwindled, going about its business. The man with the +dinner pail and the lime on his boots spat, drew the back of his hand +across his mouth, and turned away with an ugly look. (Pork was up to +$14.25, dressed.) +</P> + +<P> +The errand boy's blithe whistle died down to a mournful dirge. +</P> + +<P> +He was window-wishing. His choice wavered between the juicy pears, and +the foreign-looking red things that looked like oranges, and weren't. +One hand went into his coat pocket, extracting an apple that was to have +formed the piece de resistance of his noonday lunch. Now he regarded it +with a sort of pitying disgust, and bit into it with the +middle-of-the-morning contempt that it deserved. +</P> + +<P> +The mail carrier pushed back his cap and reflectively scratched his head. +How much over his month's wage would that green basket piled high with +exotic fruit come to? +</P> + +<P> +Jennie stood and stared after they had left, and another line had formed. +If you could have followed her gaze with dotted lines, as they do in the +cartoons, you would have seen that it was not the peaches, or the prickly +pears, or the strawberries, or the muskmelon or even the grapes, that +held her eye. In the center of that wonderful window was an oddly woven +basket. In the basket were brown things that looked like sweet potatoes. +One knew that they were not. A sign over the basket informed the puzzled +gazer that these were maymeys from Cuba. +</P> + +<P> +Maymeys from Cuba. The humor of it might have struck Jennie if she had +not been so Scotch, and so hungry. As it was, a slow, sullen, heavy +Scotch wrath rose in her breast. Maymeys from Cuba. +</P> + +<P> +The wantonness of it! Peaches? Yes. Grapes, even, and pears and +cherries in snow time. But maymeys from Cuba—why, one did not even know +if they were to be eaten with butter, or with vinegar, or in the hand, +like an apple. Who wanted maymeys from Cuba? They had gone all those +hundreds of miles to get a fruit or vegetable thing—a thing so +luxurious, so out of all reason that one did not know whether it was to +be baked, or eaten raw. There they lay, in their foreign-looking basket, +taunting Jennie who needed a quarter. +</P> + +<P> +Have I told you how Jennie happened to be hungry and jobless? Well, then +I sha'n't. It doesn't really matter, anyway. The fact is enough. If +you really demand to know you might inquire of Mr. Felix Klein. You will +find him in a mahogany office on the sixth floor. The door is marked +manager. It was his idea to import Scotch lassies from Dunfermline for +his Scotch linen department. The idea was more fetching than feasible. +</P> + +<P> +There are people who will tell you that no girl possessing a grain of +common sense and a little nerve need go hungry, no matter how great the +city. Don't you believe them. The city has heard the cry of wolf so +often that it refuses to listen when he is snarling at the door, +particularly when the door is next door. +</P> + +<P> +Where did we leave Jennie? Still standing on the sidewalk before the +fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys from Cuba. Finally her +Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it no longer. She dug her elbow +into the arm of the person standing next in line. +</P> + +<P> +"What are those?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +The next in line happened to be a man. He was a man without an overcoat, +and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and his hands thrust deep +into his pockets. It looked as though he were trying to crawl inside +himself for warmth. +</P> + +<P> +"Those? That sign says they're maymeys from Cuba." +</P> + +<P> +"I know," persisted Jennie, "but what are they?" +</P> + +<P> +"Search me. Say, I ain't bothering about maymeys from Cuba. A couple of +hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump of butter, would look good +enough to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you suppose any one buys them?" marveled Jennie. +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<P> +"Surest thing you know. Some rich dame coming by here, wondering what +she can have for dinner to tempt the jaded palates of her dear ones, see? +She sees them Cuban maymeys. 'The very thing!' she says. 'I'll have 'em +served just before the salad.' And she sails in and buys a pound or two. +I wonder, now, do you eat 'em with a fruit knife, or with a spoon?" +</P> + +<P> +Jennie took one last look at the woven basket with its foreign contents. +Then she moved on, slowly. She had been moving on for hours—weeks. +</P> + +<P> +Most people have acquired the habit of eating three meals a day. In a +city of some few millions the habit has made necessary the establishing +of many thousands of eating places. Jennie would have told you that +there were billions of these. To her the world seemed composed of one +huge, glittering restaurant, with myriads of windows through which one +caught maddening glimpses of ketchup bottles, and nickel coffee heaters, +and piles of doughnuts, and scurrying waiters in white, and people +critically studying menu cards. She walked in a maze of restaurants, +cafes, eating-houses. Tables and diners loomed up at every turn, on +every street, from Michigan Avenue's rose-shaded Louis the Somethingth +palaces, where every waiter owns his man, to the white tile mausoleums +where every man is his own waiter. Everywhere there were windows full of +lemon cream pies, and pans of baked apples swimming in lakes of golden +syrup, and pots of baked beans with the pink and crispy slices of pork +just breaking through the crust. Every dairy lunch mocked one with the +sign of "wheat cakes with maple syrup and country sausage, 20 cents." +</P> + +<P> +There are those who will say that for cases like Jennie's there are soup +kitchens, Y. W. C. A.'s, relief associations, policemen, and things like +that. And so there are. Unfortunately, the people who need them aren't +up on them. Try it. Plant yourself, penniless, in the middle of State +Street on a busy day, dive into the howling, scrambling, pushing +maelstrom that hurls itself against the mountainous and impregnable form +of the crossing policeman, and see what you'll get out of it, provided +you have the courage. +</P> + +<P> +Desperation gave Jennie a false courage. On the strength of it she made +two false starts. The third time she reached the arm of the crossing +policeman, and clutched it. That imposing giant removed the whistle from +his mouth, and majestically inclined his head without turning his gaze +upon Jennie, one eye being fixed on a red automobile that was showing +signs of sulking at its enforced pause, the other being busy with a +cursing drayman who was having an argument with his off horse. +</P> + +<P> +Jennie mumbled her question. +</P> + +<P> +Said the crossing policeman: +</P> + +<P> +"Getcher car on Wabash, ride to 'umpty-second, transfer, get off at Blank +Street, and walk three blocks south." +</P> + +<P> +Then he put the whistle back in his mouth, blew two shrill blasts, and +the horde of men, women, motors, drays, trucks, cars, and horses swept +over him, through him, past him, leaving him miraculously untouched. +</P> + +<P> +Jennie landed on the opposite curbing, breathing hard. What was that +street? Umpty-what? Well, it didn't matter, anyway. She hadn't the +nickel for car fare. +</P> + +<P> +What did you do next? You begged from people on the street. Jennie +selected a middle-aged, prosperous, motherly looking woman. She framed +her plea with stiff lips. Before she had finished her sentence she found +herself addressing empty air. The middle-aged, prosperous, motherly +looking woman had hurried on. +</P> + +<P> +Well, then you tried a man. You had to be careful there. He mustn't be +the wrong kind. There were so many wrong kinds. Just an ordinary +looking family man would be best. Ordinary looking family men are +strangely in the minority. There are so many more bull-necked, tan-shoed +ones. Finally Jennie's eye, grown sharp with want, saw one. Not too +well dressed, kind-faced, middle-aged. +</P> + +<P> +She fell into step beside him. +</P> + +<P> +"Please, can you help me out with a shilling?" +</P> + +<P> +Jennie's nose was red, and her eyes watery. Said the middle-aged family +man with the kindly face: +</P> + +<P> +"Beat it. You've had about enough I guess." +</P> + +<P> +Jennie walked into a department store, picked out the oldest and most +stationary looking floorwalker, and put it to him. The floorwalker bent +his head, caught the word "food," swung about, and pointed over Jennie's +head. +</P> + +<P> +"Grocery department on the seventh floor. Take one of those elevators +up." +</P> + +<P> +Any one but a floorwalker could have seen the misery in Jennie's face. +But to floorwalkers all women's faces are horrible. +</P> + +<P> +Jennie turned and walked blindly toward the elevators. There was no +fight left in her. If the floorwalker had said, "Silk negligees on the +fourth floor. Take one of those elevators up," Jennie would have ridden +up to the fourth floor, and stupidly gazed at pink silk and val lace +negligees in glass cases. +</P> + +<P> +Tell me, have you ever visited the grocery department of a great store on +the wrong side of State Street? It's a mouth-watering experience. A +department store grocery is a glorified mixture of delicatessen shop, +meat market, and vaudeville. Starting with the live lobsters and crabs +you work your hungry way right around past the cheeses, and the sausages, +and the hams, and tongues, and head-cheese, past the blonde person in +white who makes marvelous and uneatable things out of gelatine, through a +thousand smells and scents—smells of things smoked, and pickled, and +spiced, and baked and preserved, and roasted. +</P> + +<P> +Jennie stepped out of the elevator, licking her lips. She sniffed the +air, eagerly, as a hound sniffs the scent. She shut her eyes when she +passed the sugar-cured hams. A woman was buying a slice from one, and +the butcher was extolling its merits. Jennie caught the words "juicy" +and "corn-fed." +</P> + +<P> +That particular store prides itself on its cheese department. It boasts +that there one can get anything in cheese from the simple cottage variety +to imposing mottled Stilton. There are cheeses from France, cheeses from +Switzerland, cheeses from Holland. Brick and parmesan, Edam and +limburger perfumed the atmosphere. +</P> + +<P> +Behind the counters were big, full-fed men in white aprons, and coats. +They flourished keen bright knives. As Jennie gazed, one of them, in a +moment of idleness, cut a tiny wedge from a rich yellow Swiss cheese and +stood nibbling it absently, his eyes wandering toward the blonde gelatine +demonstrator. Jennie swayed, and caught the counter. She felt horribly +faint and queer. She shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them a +woman—a fat, housewifely, comfortable looking woman—was standing before +the cheese counter. She spoke to the cheese man. Once more his sharp +knife descended and he was offering the possible customer a sample. She +picked it off the knife's sharp tip, nibbled thoughtfully, shook her +head, and passed on. A great, glorious world of hope opened out before +Jennie. +</P> + +<P> +Her cheeks grew hot, and her eyes felt dry and bright as she approached +the cheese counter. +</P> + +<P> +"A bit of that," she said, pointing. "It doesn't look just as I like it." +</P> + +<P> +"Very fine, madam," the man assured her, and turned the knife point +toward her, with the infinitesimal wedge of cheese reposing on its blade. +Jennie tried to keep her hand steady as she delicately picked it off, +nibbled as she had seen that other woman do it, her head on one side, +before it shook a slow negative. The effort necessary to keep from +cramming the entire piece into her mouth at once left her weak and +trembling. She passed on as the other woman had done, around the corner, +and into a world of sausages. Great rosy mounds of them filled counters +and cases. Sausage! Sneer, you pate de foies grasers! But may you know +the day when hunger will have you. And on that day may you run into +linked temptation in the form of Braunschweiger Metwurst. May you know +the longing that causes the eyes to glaze at the sight of Thuringer +sausage, and the mouth to water at the scent of Cervelat wurst, and the +fingers to tremble at the nearness of smoked liver. +</P> + +<P> +Jennie stumbled on, through the smells and the sights. That nibble of +cheese had been like a drop of human blood to a man-eating tiger. It +made her bold, cunning, even while it maddened. She stopped at this +counter and demanded a slice of summer sausage. It was paper-thin, but +delicious beyond belief. At the next counter there was corned beef, +streaked fat and lean. Jennie longed to bury her teeth in the succulent +meat and get one great, soul-satisfying mouthful. She had to be content +with her judicious nibbling. To pass the golden-brown, breaded pig's +feet was torture. To look at the codfish balls was agony. And so Jennie +went on, sampling, tasting, the scraps of food acting only as an +aggravation. Up one aisle, and down the next she went. And then, just +around the corner, she brought up before the grocery department's pride +and boast, the Scotch bakery. It is the store's star vaudeville feature. +All day long the gaping crowd stands before it, watching David the Scone +Man, as with sleeves rolled high above his big arms, he kneads, and +slaps, and molds, and thumps and shapes the dough into toothsome Scotch +confections. There was a crowd around the white counters now, and the +flat baking surface of the gas stove was just hot enough, and David the +Scone Man (he called them Scuns) was whipping about here and there, +turning the baking oat cakes, filling the shelf above the stove when they +were done to a turn, rolling out fresh ones, waiting on customers. His +nut-cracker face almost allowed itself a pleased expression—but not +quite. David, the Scone Man, was Scotch (I was going to add, d'ye ken, +but I will not). +</P> + +<P> +Jennie wondered if she really saw those things. Mutton pies! Scones! +Scotch short bread! Oat cakes! She edged closer, wriggling her way +through the little crowd until she stood at the counter's edge. David, +the Scone Man, his back to the crowd, was turning the last batch of oat +cakes. Jennie felt strangely light-headed, and unsteady, and airy. She +stared straight ahead, a half-smile on her lips, while a hand that she +knew was her own, and that yet seemed no part of her, stole out, very, +very slowly, and cunningly, and extracted a hot scone from the pile that +lay in the tray on the counter. That hand began to steal back, more +quickly now. But not quickly enough. Another hand grasped her wrist. A +woman's high, shrill voice (why will women do these things to each +other?) said, excitedly: +</P> + +<P> +"Say, Scone Man! Scone Man! This girl is stealing something!" +</P> + +<P> +A buzz of exclamations from the crowd—a closing in upon her—a whirl of +faces, and counter, and trays, and gas stove. Jennie dropped with a +crash, the warm scone still grasped in her fingers. +</P> + +<P> +Just before the ambulance came it was the blonde lady of the impossible +gelatines who caught the murmur that came from Jennie's white lips. The +blonde lady bent her head closer. Closer still. When she raised her +face to those other faces crowded near, her eyes were round with surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"'S far's I can make out, she says her name's Mamie, and she's from Cuba. +Well, wouldn't that eat you! I always thought they was dark complected." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE LEADING LADY +</H3> + +<P> +The leading lady lay on her bed and wept. Not as you have seen leading +ladies weep, becomingly, with eyebrows pathetically V-shaped, mouth +quivering, sequined bosom heaving. The leading lady lay on her bed in a +red-and-blue-striped kimono and wept as a woman weeps, her head burrowing +into the depths of the lumpy hotel pillow, her teeth biting the +pillow-case to choke back the sounds so that the grouch in the next room +might not hear. +</P> + +<P> +Presently the leading lady's right hand began to grope about on the +bedspread for her handkerchief. Failing to find it, she sat up wearily, +raising herself on one elbow and pushing her hair back from her +forehead—not as you have seen a leading lady pass a lily hand across her +alabaster brow, but as a heart-sick woman does it. Her tears and +sniffles had formed a little oasis of moisture on the pillow's white +bosom so that the ugly stripe of the ticking showed through. She gazed +down at the damp circle with smarting, swollen eyes, and another lump +came up into her throat. +</P> + +<P> +Then she sat up resolutely, and looked about her. The leading lady had a +large and saving sense of humor. But there is nothing that blunts the +sense of humor more quickly than a few months of one-night stands. Even +O. Henry could have seen nothing funny about that room. +</P> + +<P> +The bed was of green enamel, with fly-specked gold trimmings. It looked +like a huge frog. The wall-paper was a crime. It represented an army of +tan mustard plasters climbing up a chocolate-fudge wall. The leading +lady was conscious of a feeling of nausea as she gazed at it. So she got +up and walked to the window. The room faced west, and the hot afternoon +sun smote full on her poor swollen eyes. Across the street the red brick +walls of the engine-house caught the glare and sent it back. The +firemen, in their blue shirt-sleeves, were seated in the shade before the +door, their chairs tipped at an angle of sixty. The leading lady stared +down into the sun-baked street, turned abruptly and made as though to +fall upon the bed again, with a view to forming another little damp oasis +on the pillow. But when she reached the center of the stifling little +bedroom her eye chanced on the electric call-button near the door. Above +the electric bell was tacked a printed placard giving information on the +subjects of laundry, ice-water, bell-boys and dining-room hours. +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady stood staring at it a moment thoughtfully. Then with a +sudden swift movement she applied her forefinger to the button and held +it there for a long half-minute. Then she sat down on the edge of the +bed, her kimono folded about her, and waited. +</P> + +<P> +She waited until a lank bell-boy, in a brown uniform that was some sizes +too small for him, had ceased to take any interest in the game of chess +which Bauer and Merkle, the champion firemen chess-players, were +contesting on the walk before the open doorway of the engine-house. The +proprietor of the Burke House had originally intended that the brown +uniform be worn by a diminutive bell-boy, such as one sees in musical +comedies. But the available supply of stage size bell-boys in our town +is somewhat limited and was soon exhausted. There followed a succession +of lank bell-boys, with arms and legs sticking ungracefully out of +sleeves and trousers. +</P> + +<P> +"Come!" called the leading lady quickly, in answer to the lank youth's +footsteps, and before he had had time to knock. +</P> + +<P> +"Ring?" asked the boy, stepping into the torrid little room. +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady did not reply immediately. She swallowed something in +her throat and pushed back the hair from her moist forehead again. The +brown uniform repeated his question, a trifle irritably. Whereupon the +leading lady spoke, desperately: +</P> + +<P> +"Is there a woman around this place? I don't mean dining-room girls, or +the person behind the cigar-counter." +</P> + +<P> +Since falling heir to the brown uniform the lank youth had heard some +strange requests. He had been interviewed by various ladies in +varicolored kimonos relative to liquid refreshment, laundry and the cost +of hiring a horse and rig for a couple of hours. One had even summoned +him to ask if there was a Bible in the house. But this latest question +was a new one. He stared, leaning against the door and thrusting one +hand into the depths of his very tight breeches pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, there's Pearlie Schultz," he said at last, with a grin. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's she?" The leading lady sat up expectantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Steno." +</P> + +<P> +The expectant figure drooped. "Blonde? And Irish crochet collar with a +black velvet bow on her chest?" +</P> + +<P> +"Who? Pearlie? Naw. You mustn't get Pearlie mixed with the common or +garden variety of stenos. Pearlie is fat, and she wears specs and she's +got a double chin. Her hair is skimpy and she don't wear no rat. W'y no +traveling man has ever tried to flirt with Pearlie yet. Pearlie's what +you'd call a woman, all right. You wouldn't never make a mistake and +think she'd escaped from the first row in the chorus." +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady rose from the bed, reached out for her pocket-book, +extracted a dime, and held it out to the bell-boy. +</P> + +<P> +"Here. Will you ask her to come up here to me? Tell her I said please." +</P> + +<P> +After he had gone she seated herself on the edge of the bed again, with a +look in her eyes like that which you have seen in the eyes of a dog that +is waiting for a door to be opened. +</P> + +<P> +Fifteen minutes passed. The look in the eyes of the leading lady began +to fade. Then a footstep sounded down the hall. The leading lady cocked +her head to catch it, and smiled blissfully. It was a heavy, comfortable +footstep, under which a board or two creaked. There came a big, sensible +thump-thump-thump at the door, with stout knuckles. The leading lady +flew to answer it. She flung the door wide and stood there, clutching +her kimono at the throat and looking up into a red, good-natured face. +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie Schultz looked down at the leading lady kindly and benignantly, +as a mastiff might look at a terrier. +</P> + +<P> +"Lonesome for a bosom to cry on?" asked she, and stepped into the room, +walked to the west windows, and jerked down the shades with a zip-zip, +shutting off the yellow glare. She came back to where the leading lady +was standing and patted her on the cheek, lightly. +</P> + +<P> +"You tell me all about it," said she, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady opened her lips, gulped, tried again, gulped +again—Pearlie Schultz shook a sympathetic head. +</P> + +<P> +"Ain't had a decent, close-to-nature powwow with a woman for weeks and +weeks, have you?" +</P> + +<P> +"How did you know?" cried the leading lady. +</P> + +<P> +"You've got that hungry look. There was a lady drummer here last winter, +and she had the same expression. She was so dead sick of eating her +supper and then going up to her ugly room and reading and sewing all +evening that it was a wonder she'd stayed good. She said it was easy +enough for the men. They could smoke, and play pool, and go to a show, +and talk to any one that looked good to 'em. But if she tried to amuse +herself everybody'd say she was tough. She cottoned to me like a burr to +a wool skirt. She traveled for a perfumery house, and she said she +hadn't talked to a woman, except the dry-goods clerks who were nice to +her trying to work her for her perfume samples, for weeks an' weeks. +Why, that woman made crochet by the bolt, and mended her clothes evenings +whether they needed it or not, and read till her eyes come near going +back on her." +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady seized Pearlie's hand and squeezed it. +</P> + +<P> +"That's it! Why, I haven't talked—really talked—to a real woman since +the company went out on the road. I'm leading lady of the 'Second Wife' +company, you know. It's one of those small cast plays, with only five +people in it. I play the wife, and I'm the only woman in the cast. It's +terrible. I ought to be thankful to get the part these days. And I was, +too. But I didn't know it would be like this. I'm going crazy. The men +in the company are good kids, but I can't go trailing around after them +all day. Besides, it wouldn't be right. They're all married, except +Billy, who plays the kid, and he's busy writing a vawdeville skit that he +thinks the New York managers are going to fight for when he gets back +home. We were to play Athens, Wisconsin, to-night, but the house burned +down night before last, and that left us with an open date. When I heard +the news you'd have thought I had lost my mother. It's bad enough having +a whole day to kill but when I think of to-night," the leading lady's +voice took on a note of hysteria, "it seems as though I'd——" +</P> + +<P> +"Say," Pearlie interrupted, abruptly, "you ain't got a real good +corset-cover pattern, have you? One that fits smooth over the bust and +don't slip off the shoulders? I don't seem able to get my hands on the +kind I want." +</P> + +<P> +"Have I!" yelled the leading lady. And made a flying leap from the bed +to the floor. +</P> + +<P> +She flapped back the cover of a big suit-case and began burrowing into +its depths, strewing the floor with lingerie, newspaper clippings, +blouses, photographs and Dutch collars. Pearlie came over and sat down +on the floor in the midst of the litter. The leading lady dived once +more, fished about in the bottom of the suit-case and brought a crumpled +piece of paper triumphantly to the surface. +</P> + +<P> +"This is it. It only takes a yard and five-eighths. And fits! Like +Anna Held's skirts. Comes down in a V front and back—like this. See? +And no fulness. Wait a minute. I'll show you my princess slip. I made +it all by hand, too. I'll bet you couldn't buy it under fifteen dollars, +and it cost me four dollars and eighty cents, with the lace and all." +</P> + +<P> +Before an hour had passed, the leading lady had displayed all her +treasures, from the photograph of her baby that died to her new Blanche +Ring curl cluster, and was calling Pearlie by her first name. When a +bell somewhere boomed six o'clock Pearlie was being instructed in a new +exercise calculated to reduce the hips an inch a month. +</P> + +<P> +"My land!" cried Pearlie, aghast, and scrambled to her feet as nimbly as +any woman can who weighs two hundred pounds. "Supper-time, and I've got +a bunch of letters an inch thick to get out! I'd better reduce that some +before I begin on my hips. But say, I've had a lovely time." +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady clung to her. "You've saved my life. Why, I forgot all +about being hot and lonely and a couple of thousand miles from New York. +Must you go?" +</P> + +<P> +"Got to. But if you'll promise you won't laugh, I'll make a date for +this evening that'll give you a new sensation anyway. There's going to +be a strawberry social on the lawn of the parsonage of our church. I've +got a booth. You shed that kimono, and put on a thin dress and those +curls and some powder, and I'll introduce you as my friend, Miss Evans. +You don't look Evans, but this is a Methodist church strawberry festival, +and if I was to tell them that you are leading lady of the 'Second Wife' +company they'd excommunicate my booth." +</P> + +<P> +"A strawberry social!" gasped the leading lady. "Do they still have +them?" She did not laugh. "Why, I used to go to strawberry festivals +when I was a little girl in——" +</P> + +<P> +"Careful! You'll be giving away your age, and, anyway, you don't look +it. Fashions in strawberry socials ain't changed much. Better bathe +your eyes in eau de cologne or whatever it is they're always dabbing on +'em in books. See you at eight." +</P> + +<P> +At eight o'clock Pearlie's thump-thump sounded again, and the leading +lady sprang to the door as before. Pearlie stared. This was no +tear-stained, heat-bedraggled creature in an unbecoming red-striped +kimono. It was a remarkably pretty woman in a white lingerie gown over a +pink slip. The leading lady knew a thing or two about the gentle art of +making-up! +</P> + +<P> +"That just goes to show," remarked Pearlie, "that you must never judge a +woman in a kimono or a bathing suit. You look nineteen. Say, I forgot +something down-stairs. Just get your handkerchief and chamois together +and meet in my cubbyhole next to the lobby, will you? I'll be ready for +you." +</P> + +<P> +Down-stairs she summoned the lank bell-boy. "You go outside and tell Sid +Strang I want to see him, will you? He's on the bench with the baseball +bunch." +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie had not seen Sid Strang outside. She did not need to. She knew +he was there. In our town all the young men dress up in their pale gray +suits and lavender-striped shirts after supper on summer evenings. Then +they stroll down to the Burke House, buy a cigar and sit down on the +benches in front of the hotel to talk baseball and watch the girls go by. +It is astonishing to note the number of our girls who have letters to +mail after supper. One would think that they must drive their pens +fiercely all the afternoon in order to get out such a mass of +correspondence. +</P> + +<P> +The obedient Sid reached the door of Pearlie's little office just off the +lobby as the leading lady came down the stairs with a spangled scarf +trailing over her arm. It was an effective entrance. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, hello!" said Pearlie, looking up from her typewriter as though Sid +Strang were the last person in the world she expected to see. "What do +you want here? Ethel, this is my friend, Mr. Sid Strang, one of our +rising young lawyers. His neckties always match his socks. Sid, this is +my friend, Miss Ethel Evans, of New York. We're going over to the +strawberry social at the M. E. parsonage. I don't suppose you'd care +about going?" +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Sid Strang gazed at the leading lady in the white lingerie dress with +the pink slip, and the V-shaped neck, and the spangled scarf, and turned +to Pearlie. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Pearlie Schultz!" he said reproachfully. "How can you ask? You +know what a strawberry social means to me! I haven't missed one in +years!" +</P> + +<P> +"I know it," replied Pearlie, with a grin. "You feel the same way about +Thursday evening prayer-meeting too, don't you? You can walk over with +us if you want to. We're going now. Miss Evans and I have got a booth." +</P> + +<P> +Sid walked. Pearlie led them determinedly past the rows of gray suits +and lavender and pink shirts on the benches in front of the hotel. And +as the leading lady came into view the gray suits stopped talking +baseball and sat up and took notice. Pearlie had known all those young +men inside of the swagger suits in the days when their summer costume +consisted of a pair of dad's pants cut down to a doubtful fit, and a +nondescript shirt damp from the swimming-hole. So she called out, +cheerily: +</P> + +<P> +"We're going over to the strawberry festival. I expect to see all you +boys there to contribute your mite to the church carpet." +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady turned to look at them, and smiled. They were such a +dapper, pink-cheeked, clean-looking lot of boys, she thought. At that +the benches rose to a man and announced that they might as well stroll +over right now. Whenever a new girl comes to visit in our town our boys +make a concerted rush at her, and develop a "case" immediately, and the +girl goes home when her visit is over with her head swimming, and forever +after bores the girls of her home town with tales of her conquests. +</P> + +<P> +The ladies of the First M. E. Church still talk of the money they +garnered at the strawberry festival. Pearlie's out-of-town friend was +garnerer-in-chief. You take a cross-eyed, pock-marked girl and put her +in a white dress, with a pink slip, on a green lawn under a string of +rose-colored Japanese lanterns, and she'll develop an almost Oriental +beauty. It is an ideal setting. The leading lady was not cross-eyed or +pock-marked. She stood at the lantern-illumined booth, with Pearlie in +the background, and dispensed an unbelievable amount of strawberries. +Sid Strang and the hotel bench brigade assisted. They made engagements +to take Pearlie and her friend down river next day, and to the ball game, +and planned innumerable picnics, gazing meanwhile into the leading lady's +eyes. There grew in the cheeks of the leading lady a flush that was not +brought about by the pink slip, or the Japanese lanterns, or the skillful +application of rouge. +</P> + +<P> +By nine o'clock the strawberry supply was exhausted, and the president of +the Foreign Missionary Society was sending wildly down-town for more +ice-cream. +</P> + +<P> +"I call it an outrage," puffed Pearlie happily, ladling ice-cream like +mad. "Making a poor working girl like me slave all evening! How many +was that last order? Four? My land! that's the third dish of ice-cream +Ed White's had! You'll have something to tell the villagers about when +you get back to New York." +</P> + +<P> +The leading lady turned a flushed face toward Pearlie. "This is more fun +than the Actors' Fair. I had the photograph booth last year, and I took +in nearly as much as Lil Russell; and goodness knows, all she needs to do +at a fair is to wear her diamond-and-pearl stomacher and her set-piece +smile, and the men just swarm around her like the pictures of a crowd in +a McCutcheon cartoon." +</P> + +<P> +When the last Japanese lantern had guttered out, Pearlie Schultz and the +leading lady prepared to go home. Before they left, the M. E. ladies +came over to Pearlie's booth and personally congratulated the leading +lady, and thanked her for the interest she had taken in the cause, and +the secretary of the Epworth League asked her to come to the tea that was +to be held at her home the following Tuesday. The leading lady thanked +her and said she'd come if she could. +</P> + +<P> +Escorted by a bodyguard of gray suits and lavender-striped shirts Pearlie +and her friend, Miss Evans, walked toward the hotel. The attentive +bodyguard confessed itself puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"Aren't you staying at Pearlie's house?" asked Sid tenderly, when they +reached the Burke House. The leading lady glanced up at the windows of +the stifling little room that faced west. +</P> + +<P> +"No," answered she, and paused at the foot of the steps to the ladies' +entrance. The light from the electric globe over the doorway shone on +her hair and sparkled in the folds of her spangled scarf. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not staying at Pearlie's because my name isn't Ethel Evans. It's +Aimee Fox, with a little French accent mark over the double E. I'm +leading lady of the 'Second Wife' company and old enough to be—well, +your aunty, anyway. We go out at one-thirty to-morrow morning." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THAT HOME-TOWN FEELING +</H3> + +<P> +We all have our ambitions. Mine is to sit in a rocking-chair on the +sidewalk at the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets, and watch the +crowds go by. South Clark Street is one of the most interesting and +cosmopolitan thoroughfares in the world (New Yorkers please sniff). If +you are from Paris, France, or Paris, Illinois, and should chance to be +in that neighborhood, you will stop at Tony's news stand to buy your +home-town paper. Don't mistake the nature of this story. There is +nothing of the shivering-newsboy-waif about Tony. He has the voice of a +fog-horn, the purple-striped shirt of a sport, the diamond scarf-pin of a +racetrack tout, and the savoir faire of the gutter-bred. You'd never +pick him for a newsboy if it weren't for his chapped hands and the +eternal cold-sore on the upper left corner of his mouth. +</P> + +<P> +It is a fascinating thing, Tony's stand. A high wooden structure rising +tier on tier, containing papers from every corner of the world. I'll +defy you to name a paper that Tony doesn't handle, from Timbuctoo to +Tarrytown, from South Bend to South Africa. A paper marked Christiania, +Norway, nestles next to a sheet from Kalamazoo, Michigan. You can get +the War Cry, or Le Figaro. With one hand, Tony will give you the Berlin +Tageblatt, and with the other the Times from Neenah, Wisconsin. Take +your choice between the Bulletin from Sydney, Australia, or the Bee from +Omaha. +</P> + +<P> +But perhaps you know South Clark Street. It is honeycombed with good +copy—man-size stuff. South Clark Street reminds one of a slatternly +woman, brave in silks and velvets on the surface, but ragged, and rumpled +and none too clean as to nether garments. It begins with a tenement so +vile, so filthy, so repulsive, that the municipal authorities deny its +very existence. It ends with a brand-new hotel, all red brick, and white +tiling, and Louise Quinze furniture, and sour-cream colored marble lobby, +and oriental rugs lavishly scattered under the feet of the unappreciative +guest from Kansas City. It is a street of signs, is South Clark. They +vary all the way from "Banca Italiana" done in fat, fly-specked letters +of gold, to "Sang Yuen" scrawled in Chinese red and black. Spaghetti and +chop suey and dairy lunches nestle side by side. Here an electric sign +blazons forth the tempting announcement of lunch. Just across the way, +delicately suggesting a means of availing one's self of the invitation, +is another which announces "Loans." South Clark Street can transform a +winter overcoat into hamburger and onions so quickly that the eye can't +follow the hand. +</P> + +<P> +Do you gather from this that you are being taken slumming? Not at all. +For the passer-by on Clark Street varies as to color, nationality, +raiment, finger-nails, and hair-cut according to the locality in which +you find him. +</P> + +<P> +At the tenement end the feminine passer-by is apt to be shawled, swarthy, +down-at-the-heel, and dragging a dark-eyed, fretting baby in her wake. +At the hotel end you will find her blonde of hair, velvet of boot, plumed +of head-gear, and prone to have at her heels a white, woolly, pink-eyed +dog. +</P> + +<P> +The masculine Clark Streeter? I throw up my hands. Pray remember that +South Clark Street embraces the dime lodging house, pawnshop, hotel, +theater, chop-suey and railway office district, all within a few blocks. +From the sidewalk in front of his groggery, "Bath House John" can see the +City Hall. The trim, khaki-garbed enlistment officer rubs elbows with +the lodging house bum. The masculine Clark Streeter may be of the kind +that begs a dime for a bed, or he may loll in manicured luxury at the +marble-lined hotel. South Clark Street is so splendidly indifferent. +</P> + +<P> +Copy-hunting, I approached Tony with hope in my heart, a smile on my +lips, and a nickel in my hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Philadelphia—er—Inquirer?" I asked, those being the city and paper +which fire my imagination least. +</P> + +<P> +Tony whipped it out, dexterously. +</P> + +<P> +I looked at his keen blue eye, his lean brown face, and his punishing +jaw, and I knew that no airy persiflage would deceive him. Boldly I +waded in. +</P> + +<P> +"I write for the magazines," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Do they know it?" grinned Tony. +</P> + +<P> +"Just beginning to be faintly aware. Your stand looks like a story to +me. Tell me, does one ever come your way? For instance, don't they come +here asking for their home-town paper—sobs in their voice—grasp the +sheet with trembling hands—type swims in a misty haze before their +eyes—turn aside to brush away a tear—all that kind of stuff, you know?" +</P> + +<P> +Tony's grin threatened his cold-sore. You can't stand on the corner of +Clark and Randolph all those years without getting wise to everything +there is. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm on," said he, "but I'm afraid I can't accommodate, girlie. I guess +my ear ain't attuned to that sob stuff. What's that? Yessir. Nossir, +fifteen cents. Well, I can't help that; fifteen's the reg'lar price of +foreign papers. Thanks. There, did you see that? I bet that gink give +up fifteen of his last two bits to get that paper. O, well, sometimes +they look happy, and then again sometimes they—Yes'm. Mississippi? +Five cents. Los Vegas Optic right here. Heh there! You're forgettin' +your change!—an' then again sometimes they look all to the doleful. +Say, stick around. Maybe somebody'll start something. You can't never +tell." +</P> + +<P> +And then this happened. +</P> + +<P> +A man approached Tony's news stand from the north, and a woman approached +Tony's news stand from the south. They brought my story with them. +</P> + +<P> +The woman reeked of the city. I hope you know what I mean. She bore the +stamp, and seal, and imprint of it. It had ground its heel down on her +face. At the front of her coat she wore a huge bunch of violets, with a +fleshly tuberose rising from its center. Her furs were voluminous. Her +hat was hidden beneath the cascades of a green willow plume. A green +willow plume would make Edna May look sophisticated. She walked with +that humping hip movement which city women acquire. She carried a +jangling handful of useless gold trinkets. Her heels were too high, and +her hair too yellow, and her lips too red, and her nose too white, and +her cheeks too pink. Everything about her was "too," from the black +stitching on her white gloves to the buckle of brilliants in her hat. +The city had her, body and soul, and had fashioned her in its metallic +cast. You would have sworn that she had never seen flowers growing in a +field. +</P> + +<P> +Said she to Tony: +</P> + +<P> +"Got a Kewaskum Courier?" +</P> + +<P> +As she said it the man stopped at the stand and put his question. To +present this thing properly I ought to be able to describe them both at +the same time, like a juggler keeping two balls in the air at once. +Kindly carry the lady in your mind's eye. The man was tall and rawboned, +with very white teeth, very blue eyes and an open-faced collar that +allowed full play to an objectionably apparent Adam's apple. His hair +and mustache were sandy, his gait loping. His manner, clothes, and +complexion breathed of Waco, Texas (or is it Arizona?) +</P> + +<P> +Said he to Tony: +</P> + +<P> +"Let me have the London Times." +</P> + +<P> +Well, there you are. I turned an accusing eye on Tony. +</P> + +<P> +"And you said no stories came your way," I murmured, reproachfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Help yourself," said Tony. +</P> + +<P> +The blonde lady grasped the Kewaskum Courier. Her green plume appeared +to be unduly agitated as she searched its columns. The sheet rattled. +There was no breeze. The hands in the too-black stitched gloves were +trembling. +</P> + +<P> +I turned from her to the man just in time to see the Adam's apple leaping +about unpleasantly and convulsively. Whereupon I jumped to two +conclusions. +</P> + +<P> +Conclusion one: Any woman whose hands can tremble over the Kewaskum +Courier is homesick. +</P> + +<P> +Conclusion two: Any man, any part of whose anatomy can become convulsed +over the London Times is homesick. +</P> + +<P> +She looked up from her Courier. He glanced away from his Times. As the +novelists have it, their eyes met. And there, in each pair of eyes there +swam that misty haze about which I had so earnestly consulted Tony. The +Green Plume took an involuntary step forward. The Adam's Apple did the +same. They spoke simultaneously. +</P> + +<P> +"They're going to pave Main Street," said the Green Plume, "and Mrs. +Wilcox, that was Jeri Meyers, has got another baby girl, and the ladies +of the First M. E. made seven dollars and sixty-nine cents on their +needle-work bazaar and missionary tea. I ain't been home in eleven +years." +</P> + +<P> +"Hallem is trying for Parliament in Westchester and the King is back at +Windsor. My mother wears a lace cap down to breakfast, and the place is +famous for its tapestries and yew trees and family ghost. I haven't been +home in twelve years." +</P> + +<P> +The great, soft light of fellow feeling and sympathy glowed in the eyes +of each. The Green Plume took still another step forward and laid her +hand on his arm (as is the way of Green Plumes the world over). +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you go, kid?" she inquired, softly. +</P> + +<P> +Adam's Apple gnawed at his mustache end. "I'm the black sheep. Why +don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +The blonde lady looked down at her glove tips. Her lower lip was caught +between her teeth. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the feminine for black sheep? I'm that. Anyway, I'd be afraid +to go home for fear it would be too much of a shock for them when they +saw my hair. They wasn't in on the intermediate stages when it was +chestnut, auburn, Titian, gold, and orange colored. I want to spare +their feelings. The last time they saw me it was just plain brown. +Where I come from a woman who dyes her hair when it is beginning to turn +gray is considered as good as lost. Funny, ain't it? And yet I remember +the minister's wife used to wear false teeth—the kind that clicks. But +hair is different." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear lady," said the blue-eyed man, "it would make no difference to your +own people. I know they would be happy to see you, hair and all. One's +own people——" +</P> + +<P> +"My folks? That's just it. If the Prodigal Son had been a daughter +they'd probably have handed her one of her sister's mother hubbards, and +put her to work washing dishes in the kitchen. You see, after Ma died my +brother married, and I went to live with him and Lil. I was an ugly +little mug, and it looked all to the Cinderella for me, with the coach, +and four, and prince left out. Lil was the village beauty when my +brother married her, and she kind of got into the habit of leaving the +heavy role to me, and confining herself to thinking parts. One day I +took twenty dollars and came to the city. Oh, I paid it back long ago, +but I've never been home since. But say, do you know every time I get +near a news stand like this I grab the home-town paper. I'll bet I've +kept track every time my sister-in-law's sewing circle has met for the +last ten years, and the spring the paper said they built a new porch I +was just dying to write and ask'em what they did with the Virginia +creeper that used to cover the whole front and sides of the old porch." +</P> + +<P> +"Look here," said the man, very abruptly, "if it's money you need, +why——" +</P> + +<P> +"Me! Do I look like a touch? Now you——" +</P> + +<P> +"Finest stock farm and ranch in seven counties. I come to Chicago once a +year to sell. I've got just thirteen thousand nestling next to my left +floating rib this minute." +</P> + +<P> +The eyes of the woman with the green plume narrowed down to two +glittering slits. A new look came into her face—a look that matched her +hat, and heels and gloves and complexion and hair. +</P> + +<P> +"Thirteen thousand! Thirteen thous—— Say, isn't it chilly on this +corner, h'm? I know a kind of a restaurant just around the corner +where——" +</P> + +<P> +"It's no use," said the sandy-haired man, gently. "And I wouldn't have +said that, if I were you. I was going back to-day on the 5:25, but I'm +sick of it all. So are you, or you wouldn't have said what you just +said. Listen. Let's go back home, you and I. The sight of a Navajo +blanket nauseates me. The thought of those prairies makes my eyes ache. +I know that if I have to eat one more meal cooked by that Chink of mine +I'll hang him by his own pigtail. Those rangy western ponies aren't +horseflesh, fit for a man to ride. Why, back home our stables were—— +Look here. I want to see a silver tea-service, with a coat-of-arms on +it. I want to dress for dinner, and take in a girl with a white gown and +smooth white shoulders. My sister clips roses in the morning, before +breakfast, in a pink ruffled dress and garden gloves. Would you believe +that, here, on Clark Street, with a whiskey sign overhead, and the +stock-yard smells undernose? O, hell! I'm going home." +</P> + +<P> +"Home?" repeated the blonde lady. "Home?" The sagging lines about her +flaccid chin took on a new look of firmness and resolve. The light of +determination glowed in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll beat you to it," she said. "I'm going home, too. I'll be there +to-morrow. I'm dead sick of this. Who cares whether I live or die? +It's just one darned round of grease paint, and sky blue tights, and new +boarding houses and humping over to the theater every night, going on, +and humping back to the room again. I want to wash up some supper dishes +with egg on 'em, and set some yeast for bread, and pop a dishpan full of +corn, and put a shawl over my head and run over to Millie Krause's to get +her kimono sleeve pattern. I'm sour on this dirt and noise. I want to +spend the rest of my life in a place so that when I die they'll put a +column in the paper, with a verse at the top, and all the neighbors'll +come in and help bake up. Here—why, here I'd just be two lines on the +want ad page, with fifty cents extra for 'Kewaskum paper please copy.'" +</P> + +<P> +The man held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said, "and please excuse me if +I say God bless you. I've never really wanted to say it before, so it's +quite extraordinary. My name's Guy Peel." +</P> + +<P> +The white glove, with its too-conspicuous black stitching, disappeared +within his palm. +</P> + +<P> +"Mine's Mercedes Meron, late of the Morning Glory Burlesquers, but from +now on Sadie Hayes, of Kewaskum, Wisconsin. Good-bye and—well—God +bless you, too. Say, I hope you don't think I'm in the habit of talking +to strange gents like this." +</P> + +<P> +"I am quite sure you are not," said Guy Peel, very gravely, and bowed +slightly before he went south on Clark Street, and she went north. +</P> + +<P> +Dear Reader, will you take my hand while I assist you to make a one +year's leap. Whoop-la! There you are. +</P> + +<P> +A man and a woman approached Tony's news stand. You are quite right. +But her willow plume was purple this time. A purple willow plume would +make Mario Doro look sophisticated. The man was sandy-haired, raw-boned, +with a loping gait, very blue eyes, very white teeth, and an +objectionably apparent Adam's apple. He came from the north, and she +from the south. +</P> + +<P> +In story books, and on the stage, when two people meet unexpectedly after +a long separation they always stop short, bring one hand up to their +breast, and say: "You!" Sometimes, especially in the case where the +heroine chances on the villain, they say, simultaneously: "You! Here!" +I have seen people reunited under surprising circumstances, but they +never said, "You!" They said something quite unmelodramatic, and +commonplace, such as: "Well, look who's here!" or, "My land! If it +ain't Ed! How's Ed?" +</P> + +<P> +So it was that the Purple Willow Plume and the Adam's Apple stopped, +shook hands, and viewed one another while the Plume said, "I kind of +thought I'd bump into you. Felt it in my bones." And the Adam's Apple +said: +</P> + +<P> +"Then you're not living in Kewaskum—er—Wisconsin?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not any," responded she, briskly. "How do you happen to be straying +away from the tapestries, and the yew trees and the ghost, and the pink +roses, and the garden gloves, and the silver tea-service with the +coat-of-arms on it?" +</P> + +<P> +A slow, grim smile overspread the features of the man. "You tell yours +first," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," began she, "in the first place, my name's Mercedes Meron, of the +Morning Glory Burlesquers, formerly Sadie Hayes of Kewaskum, Wisconsin. +I went home next day, like I said I would. Say, Mr. Peel (you said Peel, +didn't you? Guy Peel. Nice, neat name), to this day, when I eat lobster +late at night, and have dreams, it's always about that visit home." +</P> + +<P> +"How long did you stay?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm coming to that. Or maybe you can figure it out yourself when I tell +you I've been back eleven months. I wired the folks I was coming, and +then I came before they had a chance to answer. When the train reached +Kewaskum I stepped off into the arms of a dowd in a +home-made-made-over-year-before-last suit, and a hat that would have been +funny if it hadn't been so pathetic. I grabbed her by the shoulders, and +I held her off, and looked—looked at the wrinkles, and the sallow +complexion, and the coat with the sleeves in wrong, and the mashed hat (I +told you Lil used to be the village peach, didn't I?) and I says: +</P> + +<P> +"'For Gawd's sakes, Lil, does your husband beat you?' +</P> + +<P> +"'Steve!' she shrieks, 'beat me! You must be crazy!' +</P> + +<P> +"'Well, if he don't, he ought to. Those clothes are grounds for +divorce,' I says. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Guy Peel, it took me just four weeks to get wise to the fact that +the way to cure homesickness is to go home. I spent those four weeks +trying to revolutionize my sister-in-law's house, dress, kids, husband, +wall paper and parlor carpet. I took all the doilies from under the +ornaments and spoke my mind on the subject of the hand-painted lamp, and +Lil hates me for it yet, and will to her dying day. I fitted three +dresses for her, and made her get some corsets that she'll never wear. +They have roast pork for dinner on Sundays, and they never go to the +theater, and they like bread pudding, and they're happy. I wasn't. They +treated me fine, and it was home, all right, but not my home. It was the +same, but I was different. Eleven years away from anything makes it +shrink, if you know what I mean. I guess maybe you do. I remember that +I used to think that the Grand View Hotel was a regular little oriental +palace that was almost too luxurious to be respectable, and that the +traveling men who stopped there were gods, and just to prance past the +hotel after supper had the Atlantic City board walk looking like a back +alley on a rainy night. Well, everything had sort of shriveled up just +like that. The popcorn gave me indigestion, and I burned the skin off my +nose popping it. Kneading bread gave me the backache, and the blamed +stuff wouldn't raise right. I got so I was crazy to hear the roar of an +L train, and the sound of a crossing policeman's whistle. I got to +thinking how Michigan Avenue looks, downtown, with the lights shining +down on the asphalt, and all those people eating in the swell hotels, and +the autos, and the theater crowds and the windows, and—well, I'm back. +Glad I went? You said it. Because it made me so darned glad to get +back. I've found out one thing, and it's a great little lesson when you +get it learned. Most of us are where we are because we belong there, and +if we didn't, we wouldn't be. Say, that does sound mixed, don't it? But +it's straight. Now you tell yours." +</P> + +<P> +"I think you've said it all," began Guy Peel. "It's queer, isn't it, how +twelve years of America will spoil one for afternoon tea, and yew trees, +and tapestries, and lace caps, and roses. The mater was glad to see me, +but she said I smelled woolly. They think a Navajo blanket is a thing +the Indians wear on the war path, and they don't know whether Texas is a +state, or a mineral water. It was slow—slow. About the time they were +taking afternoon tea, I'd be reckoning how the boys would be rounding up +the cattle for the night, and about the time we'd sit down to dinner +something seemed to whisk the dinner table, and the flowers, and the men +and women in evening clothes right out of sight, like magic, and I could +see the boys stretched out in front of the bunk house after their supper +of bacon, and beans, and biscuit, and coffee. They'd be smoking their +pipes that smelled to Heaven, and further, and Wing would be squealing +one of his creepy old Chink songs out in the kitchen, and the sky would +be—say, Miss Meron, did you ever see the night sky, out West? Purple, +you know, and soft as soap-suds, and so near that you want to reach up +and touch it with your hand. Toward the end my mother used to take me +off in a corner and tell me that I hadn't spoken a word to the little +girl that I had taken in to dinner, and that if I couldn't forget my +uncouth western ways for an hour or two, at least, perhaps I'd better not +try to mingle with civilized people. I discovered that home isn't always +the place where you were born and bred. Home is the place where your +everyday clothes are, and where somebody, or something needs you. They +didn't need me over there in England. Lord no! I was sick for the sight +of a Navajo blanket. My shack's glowing with them. And my books needed +me, and the boys, and the critters, and Kate." +</P> + +<P> +"Kate?" repeated Miss Meron, quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Kate's my horse. I'm going back on the 5:25 to-night. This is my +regular trip, you know. I came around here to buy a paper, because it +has become a habit. And then, too, I sort of felt—well, something told +me that you——" +</P> + +<P> +"You're a nice boy," said Miss Meron. "By the way, did I tell you that I +married the manager of the show the week after I got back? We go to +Bloomington to-night, and then we jump to St. Paul. I came around here +just as usual, because—well—because——" +</P> + +<P> +Tony's gift for remembering faces and facts amounts to genius. +</P> + +<P> +With two deft movements he whisked two papers from among the many in the +rack, and held them out. +</P> + +<P> +"Kewaskum Courier?" he suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"Nix," said Mercedes Meron, "I'll take a Chicago Scream." +</P> + +<P> +"London Times?" said Tony. +</P> + +<P> +"No," replied Guy Peel. "Give me the San Antonio Express." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +X +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE HOMELY HEROINE +</H3> + +<P> +Millie Whitcomb, of the fancy goods and notions, beckoned me with her +finger. I had been standing at Kate O'Malley's counter, pretending to +admire her new basket-weave suitings, but in reality reveling in her +droll account of how, in the train coming up from Chicago, Mrs. Judge +Porterfield had worn the negro porter's coat over her chilly shoulders in +mistake for her husband's. Kate O'Malley can tell a funny story in a way +to make the after-dinner pleasantries of a Washington diplomat sound like +the clumsy jests told around the village grocery stove. +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted to tell you that I read that last story of yours," said Millie, +sociably, when I had strolled over to her counter, "and I liked it, all +but the heroine. She had an 'adorable throat' and hair that 'waved away +from her white brow,' and eyes that 'now were blue and now gray.' Say, +why don't you write a story about an ugly girl?" +</P> + +<P> +"My land!" protested I. "It's bad enough trying to make them accept my +stories as it is. That last heroine was a raving beauty, but she came +back eleven times before the editor of Blakely's succumbed to her charms." +</P> + +<P> +Millie's fingers were busy straightening the contents of a tray of combs +and imitation jet barrettes. Millie's fingers were not intended for that +task. They are slender, tapering fingers, pink-tipped and sensitive. +</P> + +<P> +"I should think," mused she, rubbing a cloudy piece of jet with a bit of +soft cloth, "that they'd welcome a homely one with relief. These +goddesses are so cloying." +</P> + +<P> +Millie Whitcomb's black hair is touched with soft mists of gray, and she +wears lavender shirtwaists and white stocks edged with lavender. There +is a Colonial air about her that has nothing to do with celluloid combs +and imitation jet barrettes. It breathes of dim old rooms, rich with the +tones of mahogany and old brass, and Millie in the midst of it, +gray-gowned, a soft white fichu crossed upon her breast. +</P> + +<P> +In our town the clerks are not the pert and gum-chewing young persons +that story-writers are wont to describe. The girls at Bascom's are +institutions. They know us all by our first names, and our lives are as +an open book to them. Kate O'Malley, who has been at Bascom's for so +many years that she is rumored to have stock in the company, may be said +to govern the fashions of our town. She is wont to say, when we express +a fancy for gray as the color of our new spring suit: +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, now, Nellie, don't get gray again. You had it year before last, and +don't you think it was just the least leetle bit trying? Let me show you +that green that came in yesterday. I said the minute I clapped my eyes +on it that it was just the color for you, with your brown hair and all." +</P> + +<P> +And we end by deciding on the green. +</P> + +<P> +The girls at Bascom's are not gossips—they are too busy for that—but +they may be said to be delightfully well informed. How could they be +otherwise when we go to Bascom's for our wedding dresses and party favors +and baby flannels? There is news at Bascom's that our daily paper never +hears of, and wouldn't dare print if it did. +</P> + +<P> +So when Millie Whitcomb, of the fancy goods and notions, expressed her +hunger for a homely heroine, I did not resent the suggestion. On the +contrary, it sent me home in thoughtful mood, for Millie Whitcomb has +acquired a knowledge of human nature in the dispensing of her fancy goods +and notions. It set me casting about for a really homely heroine. +</P> + +<P> +There never has been a really ugly heroine in fiction. Authors have +started bravely out to write of an unlovely woman, but they never have +had the courage to allow her to remain plain. On Page 237 she puts on a +black lace dress and red roses, and the combination brings out unexpected +tawny lights in her hair, and olive tints in her cheeks, and there she +is, the same old beautiful heroine. Even in the "Duchess" books one +finds the simple Irish girl, on donning a green corduroy gown cut square +at the neck, transformed into a wild-rose beauty, at sight of whom a +ball-room is hushed into admiring awe. There's the case of jane Eyre, +too. She is constantly described as plain and mouse-like, but there are +covert hints as to her gray eyes and slender figure and clear skin, and +we have a sneaking notion that she wasn't such a fright after all. +</P> + +<P> +Therefore, when I tell you that I am choosing Pearlie Schultz as my +leading lady you are to understand that she is ugly, not only when the +story opens, but to the bitter end. In the first place, Pearlie is fat. +Not, plump, or rounded, or dimpled, or deliciously curved, but FAT. She +bulges in all the wrong places, including her chin. (Sister, who has a +way of snooping over my desk in my absence, says that I may as well drop +this now, because nobody would ever read it, anyway, least of all any +sane editor. I protest when I discover that Sis has been over my papers. +It bothers me. But she says you have to do these things when you have a +genius in the house, and cites the case of Kipling's "Recessional," which +was rescued from the depths of his wastebasket by his wife.) +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie Schultz used to sit on the front porch summer evenings and watch +the couples stroll by, and weep in her heart. A fat girl with a fat +girl's soul is a comedy. But a fat girl with a thin girl's soul is a +tragedy. Pearlie, in spite of her two hundred pounds, had the soul of a +willow wand. +</P> + +<P> +The walk in front of Pearlie's house was guarded by a row of big trees +that cast kindly shadows. The strolling couples used to step gratefully +into the embrace of these shadows, and from them into other embraces. +Pearlie, sitting on the porch, could see them dimly, although they could +not see her. She could not help remarking that these strolling couples +were strangely lacking in sprightly conversation. Their remarks were but +fragmentary, disjointed affairs, spoken in low tones with a queer, +tremulous note in them. When they reached the deepest, blackest, +kindliest shadow, which fell just before the end of the row of trees, the +strolling couples almost always stopped, and then there came a quick +movement, and a little smothered cry from the girl, and then a sound, and +then a silence. Pearlie, sitting alone on the porch in the dark, +listened to these things and blushed furiously. Pearlie had never +strolled into the kindly shadows with a little beating of the heart, and +she had never been surprised with a quick arm about her and eager lips +pressed warmly against her own. +</P> + +<P> +In the daytime Pearlie worked as public stenographer at the Burke Hotel. +She rose at seven in the morning, and rolled for fifteen minutes, and lay +on her back and elevated her heels in the air, and stood stiff-kneed +while she touched the floor with her finger tips one hundred times, and +went without her breakfast. At the end of each month she usually found +that she weighed three pounds more than she had the month before. +</P> + +<P> +The folks at home never joked with Pearlie about her weight. Even one's +family has some respect for a life sorrow. Whenever Pearlie asked that +inevitable question of the fat woman: "Am I as fat as she is?" her +mother always answered: "You! Well, I should hope not! You're looking +real peaked lately, Pearlie. And your blue skirt just ripples in the +back, it's getting so big for you." +</P> + +<P> +Of such blessed stuff are mothers made. +</P> + +<P> +But if the gods had denied Pearlie all charms of face or form, they had +been decent enough to bestow on her one gift. Pearlie could cook like an +angel; no, better than an angel, for no angel could be a really clever +cook and wear those flowing kimono-like sleeves. They'd get into the +soup. Pearlie could take a piece of rump and some suet and an onion and +a cup or so of water, and evolve a pot roast that you could cut with a +fork. She could turn out a surprisingly good cake with surprisingly few +eggs, all covered with white icing, and bearing cunning little jelly +figures on its snowy bosom. She could beat up biscuits that fell apart +at the lightest pressure, revealing little pools of golden butter within. +Oh, Pearlie could cook! +</P> + +<P> +On week days Pearlie rattled the typewriter keys, but on Sundays she +shooed her mother out of the kitchen. Her mother went, protesting +faintly: +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Pearlie, don't fuss so for dinner. You ought to get your rest on +Sunday instead of stewing over a hot stove all morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Hot fiddlesticks, ma," Pearlie would say, cheerily. "It ain't hot, +because it's a gas stove. And I'll only get fat if I sit around. You +put on your black-and-white and go to church. Call me when you've got as +far as your corsets, and I'll puff your hair for you in the back." +</P> + +<P> +In her capacity of public stenographer at the Burke Hotel, it was +Pearlie's duty to take letters dictated by traveling men and beginning: +"Yours of the 10th at hand. In reply would say.…" or: "Enclosed +please find, etc." As clinching proof of her plainness it may be stated +that none of the traveling men, not even Max Baum, who was so fresh that +the girl at the cigar counter actually had to squelch him, ever called +Pearlie "baby doll," or tried to make a date with her. Not that Pearlie +would ever have allowed them to. But she never had had to reprove them. +During pauses in dictation she had a way of peering near-sightedly, over +her glasses at the dapper, well-dressed traveling salesman who was +rolling off the items on his sale bill. That is a trick which would make +the prettiest kind of a girl look owlish. +</P> + +<P> +On the night that Sam Miller strolled up to talk to her, Pearlie was +working late. She had promised to get out a long and intricate bill for +Max Baum, who travels for Kuhn and Klingman, so that he might take the +nine o'clock evening train. The irrepressible Max had departed with much +eclat and clatter, and Pearlie was preparing to go home when Sam +approached her. +</P> + +<P> +Sam had just come in from the Gayety Theater across the street, whither +he had gone in a vain search for amusement after supper. He had come +away in disgust. A soiled soubrette with orange-colored hair and baby +socks had swept her practiced eye over the audience, and, attracted by +Sam's good-looking blond head in the second row, had selected him as the +target of her song. She had run up to the extreme edge of the footlights +at the risk of teetering over, and had informed Sam through the medium of +song—to the huge delight of the audience, and to Sam's red-faced +discomfiture—that she liked his smile, and he was just her style, and +just as cute as he could be, and just the boy for her. On reaching the +chorus she had whipped out a small, round mirror and, assisted by the +calcium-light man in the rear, had thrown a wretched little spotlight on +Sam's head. +</P> + +<P> +Ordinarily, Sam would not have minded it. But that evening, in the vest +pocket just over the place where he supposed his heart to be reposed his +girl's daily letter. They were to be married on Sam's return to New York +from his first long trip. In the letter near his heart she had written +prettily and seriously about traveling men, and traveling men's wives, +and her little code for both. The fragrant, girlish, grave little letter +had caused Sam to sour on the efforts of the soiled soubrette. +</P> + +<P> +As soon as possible he had fled up the aisle and across the street to the +hotel writing-room. There he had spied Pearlie's good-humored, homely +face, and its contrast with the silly, red and-white countenance of the +unlaundered soubrette had attracted his homesick heart. +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie had taken some letters from him earlier in the day. Now, in his +hunger for companionship, he, strolled up to her desk, just as she was +putting her typewriter to bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Gee I This is a lonesome town!" said Sam, smiling down at her. +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie glanced up at him, over her glasses. "I guess you must be from +New York," she said. "I've heard a real New Yorker can get bored in +Paris. In New York the sky is bluer, and the grass is greener, and the +girls are prettier, and the steaks are thicker, and the buildings are +higher, and the streets are wider, and the air is finer, than the sky, or +the grass, or the girls, or the steaks, or the air of any place else in +the world. Ain't they?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, now," protested Sam, "quit kiddin' me! You'd be lonesome for the +little old town, too, if you'd been born and dragged up in it, and hadn't +seen it for four months." +</P> + +<P> +"New to the road, aren't you?" asked Pearlie. +</P> + +<P> +Sam blushed a little. "How did you know?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you generally can tell. They don't know what to do with +themselves evenings, and they look rebellious when they go into the +dining-room. The old-timers just look resigned." +</P> + +<P> +"You've picked up a thing or two around here, haven't you? I wonder if +the time will ever come when I'll look resigned to a hotel dinner, after +four months of 'em. Why, girl, I've got so I just eat the things that +are covered up—like baked potatoes in the shell, and soft boiled eggs, +and baked apples, and oranges that I can peel, and nuts." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you poor kid," breathed Pearlie, her pale eyes fixed on him in +motherly pity. "You oughtn't to do that. You'll get so thin your girl +won't know you." +</P> + +<P> +Sam looked up quickly. "How in thunderation did you know——?" +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie was pinning on her hat, and she spoke succinctly, her hatpins +between her teeth: "You've been here two days now, and I notice you +dictate all your letters except the longest one, and you write that one +off in a corner of the writing-room all by yourself, with your cigar just +glowing like a live coal, and you squint up through the smoke, and grin +to yourself." +</P> + +<P> +"Say, would you mind if I walked home with you?" asked Sam. +</P> + +<P> +If Pearlie was surprised, she was woman enough not to show it. She +picked up her gloves and hand bag, locked her drawer with a click, and +smiled her acquiescence. And when Pearlie smiled she was awful. +</P> + +<P> +It was a glorious evening in the early summer, moonless, velvety, and +warm. As they strolled homeward, Sam told her all about the Girl, as is +the way of traveling men the world over. He told her about the tiny +apartment they had taken, and how he would be on the road only a couple +of years more, as this was just a try-out that the firm always insisted +on. And they stopped under an arc light while Sam showed her the picture +in his watch, as is also the way of traveling men since time immemorial. +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie made an excellent listener. He was so boyish, and so much in +love, and so pathetically eager to make good with the firm, and so happy +to have some one in whom to confide. +</P> + +<P> +"But it's a dog's life, after all," reflected Sam, again after the +fashion of all traveling men. "Any fellow on the road earns his salary +these days, you bet. I used to think it was all getting up when you felt +like it, and sitting in the big front window of the hotel, smoking a +cigar and watching the pretty girls go by. I wasn't wise to the packing, +and the unpacking, and the rotten train service, and the grouchy +customers, and the canceled bills, and the grub." +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie nodded understandingly. "A man told me once that twice a week +regularly he dreamed of the way his wife cooked noodle-soup." +</P> + +<P> +"My folks are German," explained Sam. "And my mother—can she cook! +Well, I just don't seem able to get her potato pancakes out of my mind. +And her roast beef tasted and looked like roast beef, and not like a wet +red flannel rag." +</P> + +<P> +At this moment Pearlie was seized with a brilliant idea. "To-morrow's +Sunday. You're going to Sunday here, aren't you? Come over and eat your +dinner with us. If you have forgotten the taste of real food, I can give +you a dinner that'll jog your memory." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, really," protested Sam. "You're awfully good, but I couldn't think +of it. I——" +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't be afraid. I'm not letting you in for anything. I may be +homelier than an English suffragette, and I know my lines are all bumps, +but there's one thing you can't take away from me, and that's my cooking +hand. I can cook, boy, in a way to make your mother's Sunday dinner, +with company expected, look like Mrs. Newlywed's first attempt at 'riz' +biscuits. And I don't mean any disrespect to your mother when I say it. +I'm going to have noodle-soup, and fried chicken, and hot biscuits, and +creamed beans from our own garden, and strawberry shortcake with real——" +</P> + +<P> +"Hush!" shouted Sam. "If I ain't there, you'll know that I passed away +during the night, and you can telephone the clerk to break in my door." +</P> + +<P> +The Grim Reaper spared him, and Sam came, and was introduced to the +family, and ate. He put himself in a class with Dr. Johnson, and Ben +Brust, and Gargantua, only that his table manners were better. He almost +forgot to talk during the soup, and he came back three times for chicken, +and by the time the strawberry shortcake was half consumed he was looking +at Pearlie with a sort of awe in his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +That night he came over to say good-bye before taking his train out for +Ishpeming. He and Pearlie strolled down as far as the park and back +again. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't eat any supper," said Sam. "It would have been sacrilege, +after that dinner of yours. Honestly, I don't know how to thank you, +being so good to a stranger like me. When I come back next trip, I +expect to have the Kid with me, and I want her to meet you, by George! +She's a winner and a pippin, but she wouldn't know whether a porterhouse +was stewed or frapped. I'll tell her about you, you bet. In the +meantime, if there's anything I can do for you, I'm yours to command." +</P> + +<P> +Pearlie turned to him suddenly. "You see that clump of thick shadows +ahead of us, where those big trees stand in front of our house?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," replied Sam. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, when we step into that deepest, blackest shadow, right in front of +our porch, I want you to reach up, and put your arm around me and kiss me +on the mouth, just once. And when you get back to New York you can tell +your girl I asked you to." +</P> + +<P> +There broke from him a little involuntary exclamation. It might have +been of pity, and it might have been of surprise. It had in it something +of both, but nothing of mirth. And as they stepped into the depths of +the soft black shadows he took off his smart straw sailor, which was so +different from the sailors that the boys in our town wear. And there was +in the gesture something of reverence. +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<P> +Millie Whitcomb didn't like the story of the homely heroine, after all. +She says that a steady diet of such literary fare would give her blue +indigestion. Also she objects on the ground that no one got +married—that is, the heroine didn't. And she says that a heroine who +does not get married isn't a heroine at all. She thinks she prefers the +pink-cheeked, goddess kind, in the end. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SUN DRIED +</H3> + +<P> +There come those times in the life of every woman when she feels that she +must wash her hair at once. And then she does it. The feeling may come +upon her suddenly, without warning, at any hour of the day or night; or +its approach may be slow and insidious, so that the victim does not at +first realize what it is that fills her with that sensation of unrest. +But once in the clutches of the idea she knows no happiness, no peace, +until she has donned a kimono, gathered up two bath towels, a spray, and +the green soap, and she breathes again only when, head dripping, she +makes for the back yard, the sitting-room radiator, or the side porch +(depending on her place of residence, and the time of year). +</P> + +<P> +Mary Louise was seized with the feeling at ten o'clock on a joyous June +morning. She tried to fight it off because she had got to that stage in +the construction of her story where her hero was beginning to talk and +act a little more like a real live man, and a little less like a clothing +store dummy. (By the way, they don't seem to be using those +pink-and-white, black-mustachioed figures any more. Another good simile +gone.) +</P> + +<P> +Mary Louise had been battling with that hero for a week. He wouldn't +make love to the heroine. In vain had Mary Louise striven to instill red +blood into his watery veins. He and the beauteous heroine were as far +apart as they had been on Page One of the typewritten manuscript. Mary +Louise was developing nerves over him. She had bitten her finger nails, +and twisted her hair into corkscrews over him. She had risen every +morning at the chaste hour of seven, breakfasted hurriedly, tidied the +tiny two-room apartment, and sat down in the unromantic morning light to +wrestle with her stick of a hero. She had made her heroine a creature of +grace, wit, and loveliness, but thus far the hero had not once clasped +her to him fiercely, or pressed his lips to her hair, her eyes, her +cheeks. Nay (as the story-writers would put it), he hadn't even devoured +her with his gaze. +</P> + +<P> +This morning, however, he had begun to show some signs of life. He was +developing possibilities. Whereupon, at this critical stage in the +story-writing game, the hair-washing mania seized Mary Louise. She tried +to dismiss the idea. She pushed it out of her mind, and slammed the +door. It only popped in again. Her fingers wandered to her hair. Her +eyes wandered to the June sunshine outside. The hero was left poised, +arms outstretched, and unquenchable love-light burning in his eyes, while +Mary Louise mused, thus: +</P> + +<P> +"It certainly feels sticky. It's been six weeks, at least. And I could +sit here-by the window—in the sun—and dry it——" +</P> + +<P> +With a jerk she brought her straying fingers away from her hair, and her +wandering eyes away from the sunshine, and her runaway thoughts back to +the typewritten page. For three minutes the snap of the little disks +crackled through the stillness of the tiny apartment. Then, suddenly, as +though succumbing to an irresistible force, Mary Louise rose, walked +across the room (a matter of six steps), removing hairpins as she went, +and shoved aside the screen which hid the stationary wash-bowl by day. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Louise turned on a faucet and held her finger under it, while an +agonized expression of doubt and suspense overspread her features. +Slowly the look of suspense gave way to a smile of beatific content. A +sigh—deep, soul-filling, satisfied—welled up from Mary Louise's breast. +The water was hot. +</P> + +<P> +Half an hour later, head swathed turban fashion in a towel, Mary Louise +strolled over to the window. Then she stopped, aghast. In that half +hour the sun had slipped just around the corner, and was now beating +brightly and uselessly against the brick wall a few inches away. Slowly +Mary Louise unwound the towel, bent double in the contortionistic +attitude that women assume on such occasions, and watched with melancholy +eyes while the drops trickled down to the ends of her hair, and fell, +unsunned, to the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"If only," thought Mary Louise, bitterly, "there was such a thing as a +back yard in this city—a back yard where I could squat on the grass, in +the sunshine and the breeze—— Maybe there is. I'll ask the janitor." +</P> + +<P> +She bound her hair in the turban again, and opened the door. At the far +end of the long, dim hallway Charlie, the janitor, was doing something to +the floor with a mop and a great deal of sloppy water, whistling the +while with a shrill abandon that had announced his presence to Mary +Louise. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Charlie!" called Mary Louise. "Charlee! Can you come here just a +minute?" +</P> + +<P> +"You bet!" answered Charlie, with the accent on the you; and came. +</P> + +<P> +"Charlie, is there a back yard, or something, where the sun is, you +know—some nice, grassy place where I can sit, and dry my hair, and let +the breezes blow it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Back yard!" grinned Charlie. "I guess you're new to N' York, all right, +with ground costin' a million or so a foot. Not much they ain't no back +yard, unless you'd give that name to an ash-barrel, and a dump heap or +so, and a crop of tin cans. I wouldn't invite a goat to set in it." +</P> + +<P> +Disappointment curved Mary Louise's mouth. It was a lovely enough mouth +at any time, but when it curved in disappointment—ell, janitors are but +human, after all. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell you what, though," said Charlie. "I'll let you up on the roof. It +ain't long on grassy spots up there, but say, breeze! Like a summer +resort. On a clear day you can see way over 's far 's Eight' Avenoo. +Only for the love of Mike don't blab it to the other women folks in the +buildin', or I'll have the whole works of 'em usin' the roof for a +general sun, massage, an' beauty parlor. Come on." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll never breathe it to a soul," promised Mary Louise, solemnly. "Oh, +wait a minute." +</P> + +<P> +She turned back into her room, appearing again in a moment with something +green in her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" asked Charlie, suspiciously. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Louise, speeding down the narrow hallway after Charlie, blushed a +little. "It—it's parsley," she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"Parsley!" exploded Charlie. "Well, what the——" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you see. I'm from the country," explained Mary Louise, "and in +the country, at this time of year, when you dry your hair in the back +yard, you get the most wonderful scent of green and growing things—not +only of flowers, you know, but of the new things just coming up in the +vegetable garden, and—and—well, this parsley happens to be the only +really gardeny thing I have, so I thought I'd bring it along and sniff it +once in a while, and make believe it's the country, up there on the roof." +</P> + +<P> +Half-way up the perilous little flight of stairs that led to the roof, +Charlie, the janitor, turned to gaze down at Mary Louise, who was just +behind, and keeping fearfully out of the way of Charlie's heels. +</P> + +<P> +"Wimmin," observed Charlie, the janitor, "is nothin' but little girls in +long skirts, and their hair done up." +</P> + +<P> +"I know it," giggled Mary Louise, and sprang up on the roof, looking, +with her towel-swathed head, like a lady Aladdin leaping from her +underground grotto. +</P> + +<P> +The two stood there a moment, looking up at the blue sky, and all about +at the June sunshine. +</P> + +<P> +"If you go up high enough," observed Mary Louise, "the sunshine is almost +the same as it is in the country, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't wonder," said Charlie, "though Calvary cemetery is about as +near's I'll ever get to the country. Say, you can set here on this soap +box and let your feet hang down. The last janitor's wife used to hang +her washin' up here, I guess. I'll leave this door open, see?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're so kind," smiled Mary Louise. +</P> + +<P> +"Kin you blame me?" retorted the gallant Charles. And vanished. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Louise, perched on the soap box, unwound her turban, draped the damp +towel over her shoulders, and shook out the wet masses of her hair. Now +the average girl shaking out the wet masses of her hair looks like a +drowned rat. But Nature had been kind to Mary Louise. She had given her +hair that curled in little ringlets when wet, and that waved in all the +right places when dry. +</P> + +<P> +Just now it hung in damp, shining strands on either side of her face, so +that she looked most remarkably like one of those oval-faced, great-eyed, +red-lipped women that the old Italian artists were so fond of painting. +</P> + +<P> +Below her, blazing in the sun, lay the great stone and iron city. Mary +Louise shook out her hair idly, with one hand, sniffed her parsley, shut +her eyes, threw back her head, and began to sing, beating time with her +heel against the soap box, and forgetting all about the letter that had +come that morning, stating that it was not from any lack of merit, etc. +She sang, and sniffed her parsley, and waggled her hair in the breeze, +and beat time, idly, with the heel of her little boot, when—— +</P> + +<P> +"Holy Cats!" exclaimed a man's voice. "What is this, anyway? A Coney +Island concession gone wrong?" +</P> + +<P> +Mary Louise's eyes unclosed in a flash, and Mary Louise gazed upon an +irate-looking, youngish man, who wore shabby slippers, and no collar with +a full dress air. +</P> + +<P> +"I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter," growled the +collarless man. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Are you the +scrub-lady's stalwart son?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike with their hair +down. I ask your pardon, though." +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all men look like +picked chickens with their collars off." +</P> + +<P> +At that the collarless man, who until now had been standing on the top +step that led up to the roof, came slowly forward, stepped languidly over +a skylight or two, draped his handkerchief over a convenient chimney and +sat down, hugging his long, lean legs to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"It was," said Mary Louise. +</P> + +<P> +"Ha!" exploded he, again. Then, "Where's your mirror?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Mirror?" echoed Mary Louise. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly. You have the hair, the comb, the attitude, and the general +Lorelei effect. Also your singing lured me to your shores." +</P> + +<P> +"You didn't look lured," retorted Mary Louise. "You looked lurid." +</P> + +<P> +"What's that stuff in your hand?" next demanded he. He really was a most +astonishingly rude young man. +</P> + +<P> +"Parsley." +</P> + +<P> +"Parsley!" shouted he, much as Charlie had done. "Well, what the——" +</P> + +<P> +"Back home," elucidated Mary Louise once more, patiently, "after you've +washed your hair you dry it in the back yard, sitting on the grass, in +the sunshine and the breeze. And the garden smells come to you—the +nasturtiums, and the pansies, and the geraniums, you know, and even that +clean grass smell, and the pungent vegetable odor, and there are ants, +and bees, and butterflies——" +</P> + +<P> +"Go on," urged the young man, eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"And Mrs. Next Door comes out to hang up a few stockings, and a jabot or +so, and a couple of baby dresses that she has just rubbed through, and +she calls out to you: +</P> + +<P> +"'Washed your hair?' +</P> + +<P> +"'Yes,' you say. 'It was something awful, and I wanted it nice for +Tuesday night. But I suppose I won't be able to do a thing with it.' +</P> + +<P> +"And then Mrs. Next Door stands there a minute on the clothes-reel +platform, with the wind whipping her skirts about her, and the fresh +smell of the growing things coming to her. And suddenly she says: 'I +guess I'll wash mine too, while the baby's asleep.'" +</P> + +<P> +The collarless young man rose from his chimney, picked up his +handkerchief, and moved to the chimney just next to Mary Louise's soap +box. +</P> + +<P> +"Live here?" he asked, in his impolite way. +</P> + +<P> +"If I did not, do you think that I would choose this as the one spot in +all New York in which to dry my hair?" +</P> + +<P> +"When I said, 'Live here,' I didn't mean just that. I meant who are you, +and why are you here, and where do you come from, and do you sign your +real name to your stuff, or use a nom de plume?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why—how did you know?" gasped Mary Louise. +</P> + +<P> +"Give me five minutes more," grinned the keen-eyed young man, "and I'll +tell you what make your typewriter is, and where the last rejection slip +came from." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" said Mary Louise again. "Then you are the scrub-lady's stalwart +son, and you've been ransacking my waste-basket." +</P> + +<P> +Quite unheeding, the collarless man went on, "And so you thought you +could write, and you came on to New York (you know one doesn't just +travel to New York, or ride to it, or come to it; one 'comes on' to New +York), and now you're not so sure about the writing, h'm? And back home +what did you do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Back home I taught school—and hated it. But I kept on teaching until +I'd saved five hundred dollars. Every other school ma'am in the world +teaches until she has saved five hundred dollars, and then she packs two +suit-cases, and goes to Europe from June until September. But I saved my +five hundred for New York. I've been here six months now, and the five +hundred has shrunk to almost nothing, and if I don't break into the +magazines pretty soon——" +</P> + +<P> +"Then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Mary Louise, with a quaver in her voice, "I'll have to go +back and teach thirty-seven young devils that six times five is thirty, +put down the naught and carry six, and that the French are a gay people, +fond of dancing and light wines. But I'll scrimp on everything from +hairpins to shoes, and back again, including pretty collars, and gloves, +and hats, until I've saved up another five hundred, and then I'll try it +all over again, because I—can—write." +</P> + +<P> +From the depths of one capacious pocket the inquiring man took a small +black pipe, from another a bag of tobacco, from another a match. The +long, deft fingers made a brief task of it. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't ask you," he said, after the first puff, "because I could see +that you weren't the fool kind that objects." Then, with amazing +suddenness, "Know any of the editors?" +</P> + +<P> +"Know them!" cried Mary Louise. "Know them! If camping on their +doorsteps, and haunting the office buildings, and cajoling, and fighting +with secretaries and office boys, and assistants and things constitutes +knowing them, then we're chums." +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you think you can write?" sneered the thin man. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Louise gathered up her brush, and comb, and towel, and parsley, and +jumped off the soap box. She pointed belligerently at her tormentor with +the hand that held the brush. +</P> + +<P> +"Being the scrub-lady's stalwart son, you wouldn't understand. But I can +write. I sha'n't go under. I'm going to make this town count me in as +the four million and oneth. Sometimes I get so tired of being nobody at +all, with not even enough cleverness in me to wrest a living from this +big city, that I long to stand out at the edge of the curbing, and take +off my hat, and wave it, and shout, 'Say, you four million uncaring +people, I'm Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, and I like your +town, and I want to stay here. Won't you please pay some slight +attention to me. No one knows I'm here except myself, and the rent +collector.'" +</P> + +<P> +"And I," put in the rude young man. +</P> + +<P> +"O, you," sneered Mary Louise, equally rude, "you don't count." +</P> + +<P> +The collarless young man in the shabby slippers smiled a curious little +twisted smile. "You never can tell," he grinned, "I might." Then, quite +suddenly, he stood up, knocked the ash out of his pipe, and came over to +Mary Louise, who was preparing to descend the steep little flight of +stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, you stop trying to +write the slop you're writing now. Stop it. Drop the love tales that +are like the stuff that everybody else writes. Stop trying to write +about New York. You don't know anything about it. Listen. You get back +to work, and write about Mrs. Next Door, and the hair-washing, and the +vegetable garden, and bees, and the back yard, understand? You write the +way you talked to me, and then you send your stuff in to Cecil Reeves." +</P> + +<P> +"Reeves!" mocked Mary Louise. "Cecil Reeves, of The Earth? He wouldn't +dream of looking at my stuff. And anyway, it really isn't your affair." +And began to descend the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you know you brought me up here, kicking with your heels, and +singing at the top of your voice. I couldn't work. So it's really your +fault." Then, just as Mary Louise had almost disappeared down the +stairway he put his last astonishing question. +</P> + +<P> +"How often do you wash your hair?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, back home," confessed Mary Louise, "every six weeks or so was +enough, but——" +</P> + +<P> +"Not here," put in the rude young man, briskly. "Never. That's all very +well for the country, but it won't do in the city. Once a week, at +least, and on the roof. Cleanliness demands it." +</P> + +<P> +"But if I'm going back to the country," replied Mary Louise, "it won't be +necessary." +</P> + +<P> +"But you're not," calmly said the collarless young man, just as Mary +Louise vanished from sight. +</P> + +<P> +Down at the other end of the hallway on Mary Louise's floor Charlie, the +janitor, was doing something to the windows now, with a rag, and a pail +of water. +</P> + +<P> +"Get it dry?" he called out, sociably. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, thank you," answered Mary Louise, and turned to enter her own +little apartment. Then, hesitatingly, she came back to Charlie's window. +</P> + +<P> +"There—there was a man up there—a very tall, very thin, very rude, +very—that is, rather nice youngish oldish man, in slippers, and no +collar. I wonder——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, him!" snorted Charlie. "He don't show himself onct in a blue moon. +None of the other tenants knows he's up there. Has the whole top floor +to himself, and shuts himself up there for weeks at a time, writin' +books, or some such truck. That guy, he owns the building." +</P> + +<P> +"Owns the building!" said Mary Louise, faintly. "Why he looked—he +looked——" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," grinned Charlie. "That's him. Name's Reeves—Cecil Reeves. +Say, ain't that a divil of a name?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WHERE THE CAR TURNS AT 18TH +</H3> + +<P> +This will be a homing pigeon story. Though I send it ever so far—though +its destination be the office of a home-and-fireside magazine or one of +the kind with a French story in the back, it will return to me. After +each flight its feathers will be a little more rumpled, its wings more +weary, its course more wavering, until, battered, spent, broken, it will +flutter to rest in the waste basket. +</P> + +<P> +And yet, though its message may never be delivered, it must be sent, +because—well, because—— +</P> + +<P> +You know where the car turns at Eighteenth? There you see a glaringly +attractive billboard poster. It depicts groups of smiling, white-clad +men standing on tropical shores, with waving palms overhead, and a +glimpse of blue sea in the distance. The wording beneath the picture +runs something like this: +</P> + +<P> +"Young men wanted. An unusual opportunity for travel, education, and +advancement. Good pay. No expenses." +</P> + +<P> +When the car turns at Eighteenth, and I see that, I remember Eddie +Houghton back home. And when I remember Eddie Houghton I see red. +</P> + +<P> +The day after Eddie Houghton finished high school he went to work. In +our town we don't take a job. We accept a position. Our paper had it +that "Edwin Houghton had accepted a position as clerk and assistant +chemist at the Kunz drugstore, where he would take up his new duties +Monday." +</P> + +<P> +His new duties seemed, at first, to consist of opening the store in the +morning, sweeping out, and whizzing about town on a bicycle with an +unnecessarily insistent bell, delivering prescriptions which had been +telephoned for. But by the time the summer had really set in Eddie was +installed back of the soda fountain. +</P> + +<P> +There never was anything better looking than Eddie Houghton in his white +duck coat. He was one of those misleadingly gold and pink and white men. +I say misleadingly because you usually associate pink-and-whiteness with +such words as sissy and mollycoddle. Eddie was neither. He had played +quarter-back every year from his freshman year, and he could putt the +shot and cut classes with the best of 'em. But in that white duck coat +with the braiding and frogs he had any musical-comedy, white-flannel +tenor lieutenant whose duty it is to march down to the edge of the +footlights, snatch out his sword, and warble about his country's flag, +looking like a flat-nosed, blue-gummed Igorrote. Kunz's soda water +receipts swelled to double their usual size, and the girls' complexions +were something awful that summer. I've known Nellie Donovan to take as +many as three ice cream sodas and two phosphates a day when Eddie was +mixing. He had a way of throwing in a good-natured smile, and an easy +flow of conversation with every drink. While indulging in a little airy +persiflage the girls had a great little trick of pursing their mouths +into rosebud shapes over their soda straws, and casting their eyes upward +at Eddie. They all knew the trick, and its value, so that at night +Eddie's dreams were haunted by whole rows of rosily pursed lips, and seas +of upturned, adoring eyes. Of course we all noticed that on those rare +occasions when Josie Morehouse came into Kunz's her glass was heaped +higher with ice cream than that of any of the other girls, and that +Eddie's usually easy flow of talk was interspersed with certain +stammerings and stutterings. But Josie didn't come in often. She had a +lot of dignity for a girl of eighteen. Besides, she was taking the +teachers' examinations that summer, when the other girls were playing +tennis and drinking sodas. +</P> + +<P> +Eddie really hated the soda water end of the business, as every soda +clerk in the world does. But he went about it good-naturedly. He really +wanted to learn the drug business, but the boss knew he had a drawing +card, and insisted that Eddie go right on concocting faerie queens and +strawberry sundaes, and nectars and Kunz's specials. One Saturday, when +he happened to have on hand an over-supply of bananas that would have +spoiled over Sunday, he invented a mess and called it the Eddie Extra, +and the girls swarmed on it like flies around a honey pot. +</P> + +<P> +That kind of thing would have spoiled most boys. But Eddie had a +sensible mother. On those nights when he used to come home nauseated +with dealing out chop suey sundaes and orangeades, and saying that there +was no future for a fellow in our dead little hole, his mother would give +him something rather special for supper, and set him hoeing and watering +the garden. +</P> + +<P> +So Eddie stuck to his job, and waited, and all the time he was saying, +with a melting look, to the last silly little girl who was drinking her +third soda, "Somebody looks mighty sweet in pink to-day," or while he was +doping to-morrow's ball game with one of the boys who dropped in for a +cigar, he was thinking of bigger things, and longing for a man-size job. +</P> + +<P> +The man-size job loomed up before Eddie's dazzled eyes when he least +expected it. It was at the close of a particularly hot day when it +seemed to Eddie that every one in town had had everything from birch beer +to peach ice cream. On his way home to supper he stopped at the +postoffice with a handful of letters that old man Kunz had given him to +mail. His mother had told him that they would have corn out of their own +garden for supper that night, and Eddie was in something of a hurry. He +and his mother were great pals. +</P> + +<P> +In one corner of the dim little postoffice lobby a man was busily tacking +up posters. The whitewashed walls bloomed with them. They were gay, +attractive-looking posters, done in red and blue and green, and after +Eddie had dumped his mail into the slot, and had called out, "Hello, +Jake!" to the stamp clerk, whose back was turned to the window, he +strolled idly over to where the man was putting the finishing touches to +his work. The man was dressed in a sailor suit of blue, with a +picturesque silk scarf knotted at his hairy chest. He went right on +tacking posters. +</P> + +<P> +They certainly were attractive pictures. Some showed groups of stalwart, +immaculately clad young gods lolling indolently on tropical shores, with +a splendor of palms overhead, and a sparkling blue sea in the distance. +Others depicted a group of white-clad men wading knee-deep in the surf as +they laughingly landed a cutter on the sandy beach. There was a +particularly fascinating one showing two barefooted young chaps on a +wave-swept raft engaged in that delightfully perilous task known as +signaling. Another showed the keen-eyed gunners busy about the big guns. +</P> + +<P> +Eddie studied them all. +</P> + +<P> +The man finished his task and looked up, quite casually. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, kid," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello," answered Eddie. Then—"That's some picture gallery you're +giving us." +</P> + +<P> +The man in the sailor suit fell back a pace or two and surveyed his work +with a critical but satisfied eye. +</P> + +<P> +"Pitchers," he said, "don't do it justice. We've opened a recruiting +office here. Looking for young men with brains, and muscle, and +ambition. It's a great chance. We don't get to these here little towns +much." +</P> + +<P> +He placed a handbill in Eddie's hand. Eddie glanced down at it +sheepishly. +</P> + +<P> +"I've heard," he said, "that it's a hard life." +</P> + +<P> +The man in the sailor suit threw back his head and laughed, displaying a +great deal of hairy throat and chest. "Hard!" he jeered, and slapped one +of the gay-colored posters with the back of his hand. "You see that! +Well, it ain't a bit exaggerated. Not a bit. I ought to know. It's the +only life for a young man, especially for a guy in a little town. +There's no chance here for a bright young man, and if he goes to the +city, what does he get? The city's jam full of kids that flock there in +the spring and fall, looking for jobs, and thinking the city's sittin' up +waitin' for 'em. And where do they land? In the dime lodging houses, +that's where. In the navy you see the world, and it don't cost you a +cent. A guy is a fool to bury himself alive in a hole like this. You +could be seeing the world, traveling by sea from port to port, from +country to country, from ocean to ocean, amid ever-changing scenery and +climatic conditions, to see and study the habits and conditions of the +strange races——" +</P> + +<P> +It rolled off his tongue with fascinating glibness. Eddie glanced at the +folder in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"I always did like the water," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," agreed the hairy man, heartily. "What young feller don't? I'll +tell you what. Come on over to the office with me and I'll show you some +real stuff." +</P> + +<P> +"It's my supper time," hesitated Eddie. "I guess I'd better not——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, supper," laughed the man. "You come on and have supper with me, +kid." +</P> + +<P> +Eddie's pink cheeks went three shades pinker. "Gee! That'd be great. +But my mother—that is—she——" +</P> + +<P> +The man in the sailor suit laughed again—a laugh with a sting in it. "A +great big feller like you ain't tied to your ma's apron strings are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not much I'm not!" retorted Eddie. "I'll telephone her when I get to +your hotel, that's what I'll do." +</P> + +<P> +But they were such fascinating things, those new booklets, and the man +had such marvelous tales to tell, that Eddie forgot trifles like supper +and waiting mothers. There were pictures taken on board ship, showing +frolics, and ball games, and minstrel shows and glee clubs, and the men +at mess, and each sailor sleeping snug as a bug in his hammock. There +were other pictures showing foreign scenes and strange ports. Eddie's +tea grew cold, and his apple pie and cheese lay untasted on his plate. +</P> + +<P> +"Now me," said the recruiting officer, "I'm a married man. But my wife, +she wouldn't have it no other way. No, sir! She'll be in the navy +herself, I'll bet, when women vote. Why, before I joined the navy I +didn't know whether Guam was a vegetable or an island, and Culebra wasn't +in my geography. Now? Why, now I'm as much at home in Porto Rico as I +am in San Francisco. I'm as well acquainted in Valparaiso as I am in +Vermont, and I've run around Cairo, Egypt, until I know it better than +Cairo, Illinois. It's the only way to see the world. You travel by sea +from port to port, from country to country, from ocean to ocean, amid +ever-changing scenery and climatic conditions, to see and study the——" +</P> + +<P> +And Eddie forgot that it was Wednesday night, which was the prescription +clerk's night off; forgot that the boss was awaiting his return that he +might go home to his own supper; forgot his mother, and her little treat +of green corn out of the garden; forgot everything in the wonder of this +man's tales of people and scenes such as he never dreamed could exist +outside of a Jack London story. Now and then Eddie interrupted with a, +"Yes, but——" that grew more and more infrequent, until finally they +ceased altogether. Eddie's man-size job had come. +</P> + +<P> +When we heard the news we all dropped in at the drug store to joke with +him about it. We had a good deal to say about rolling gaits, and +bell-shaped trousers, and anchors and sea serpents tattooed on the arm. +One of the boys scored a hit by slapping his dime down on the soda +fountain marble and bellowing for rum and salt horse. Some one started +to tease the little Morehouse girl about sailors having sweethearts in +every port, but when they saw the look in her eyes they changed their +mind, and stopped. It's funny how a girl of twenty is a woman, when a +man of twenty is a boy. +</P> + +<P> +Eddie dished out the last of his chocolate ice cream sodas and cherry +phosphates and root beers, while the girls laughingly begged him to bring +them back kimonos from China, and scarves from the Orient, and Eddie +promised, laughing, too, but with a far-off, eager look in his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +When the time came for him to go there was quite a little bodyguard of us +ready to escort him down to the depot. We picked up two or three more +outside O'Rourke's pool room, and a couple more from the benches outside +the hotel. Eddie walked ahead with his mother. I have said that Mrs. +Houghton was a sensible woman. She was never more so than now. Any +other mother would have gone into hysterics and begged the recruiting +officer to let her boy off. But she knew better. Still, I think Eddie +felt some uncomfortable pangs when he looked at her set face. On the way +to the depot we had to pass the Agassiz School, where Josie Morehouse was +substituting second reader for the Wilson girl, who was sick. She was +standing in the window as we passed. Eddie took off his cap and waved to +her, and she returned the wave as well as she could without having the +children see her. That would never have done, seeing that she was the +teacher, and substituting at that. But when we turned the corner we +noticed that she was still standing at the window and leaning out just a +bit, even at the risk of being indiscreet. +</P> + +<P> +When the 10:15 pulled out Eddie stood on the bottom step, with his cap +off, looking I can't tell you how boyish, and straight, and clean, and +handsome, with his lips parted, and his eyes very bright. The +hairy-chested recruiting officer stood just beside him, and suffered by +contrast. There was a bedlam of good-byes, and last messages, and +good-natured badinage, but Eddie's mother's eyes never left his face +until the train disappeared around the curve in the track. +</P> + +<P> +Well, they got a new boy at Kunz's—a sandy-haired youth, with pimples, +and no knack at mixing, and we got out of the habit of dropping in there, +although those fall months were unusually warm. +</P> + +<P> +It wasn't long before we began to get postcards—pictures of the naval +training station, and the gymnasium, and of model camps and of drills, +and of Eddie in his uniform. His mother insisted on calling it his +sailor suit, as though he were a little boy. One day Josie Morehouse +came over to Mrs. Houghton's with a group picture in her hand. She +handed it to Eddie's mother without comment. Mrs. Houghton looked at it +eagerly, her eye selecting her own boy from the group as unerringly as a +mother bird finds her nest in the forest. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Eddie's better looking than that!" she cried, with a tremulous +little laugh. "How funny those pants make them look, don't they? And +his mouth isn't that way, at all. Eddie always had the sweetest mouth, +from the time he was a baby. Let's see some of these other boys. +Why—why——" +</P> + +<P> +Then she fell silent, scanning those other faces. Presently Josie bent +over her and looked too, and the brows of both women knitted in +perplexity. They looked for a long, long minute, and the longer they +looked the more noticeable became the cluster of fine little wrinkles +that had begun to form about Mrs. Houghton's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +When finally they looked up it was to gaze at one another questioningly. +</P> + +<P> +"Those other boys," faltered Eddie's mother, "they—they don't look like +Eddie, do they? I mean——" +</P> + +<P> +"No, they don't," agreed Josie. "They look older, and they have such +queer-looking eyes, and jaws, and foreheads. But then," she finished, +with mock cheerfulness, "you can never tell in those silly kodak +pictures." +</P> + +<P> +Eddie's mother studied the card again, and sighed gently. "I hope," she +said, "that Eddie won't get into bad company." +</P> + +<P> +After that our postal cards ceased. I wish that there was some way of +telling this story so that the end wouldn't come in the middle. But +there is none. In our town we know the news before the paper comes out, +and we only read it to verify what we have heard. So that long before +the paper came out in the middle of the afternoon we had been horrified +by the news of Eddie Houghton's desertion and suicide. We stopped one +another on Main Street to talk about it, and recall how boyish and +handsome he had looked in his white duck coat, and on that last day just +as the 10:15 pulled out. "It don't seem hardly possible, does it?" we +demanded of each other. +</P> + +<P> +But when Eddie's mother brought out the letters that had come after our +postal cards had ceased, we understood. And when they brought him home, +and we saw him for the last time, all those of us who had gone to school +with him, and to dances, and sleigh rides, and hayrack parties, and +picnics, and when we saw the look on his face—the look of one who, +walking in a sunny path has stumbled upon something horrible and +unclean—we forgave him his neglect of us, we forgave him desertion, +forgave him the taking of his own life, forgave him the look that he had +brought into his mother's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +There had never been anything extraordinary about Eddie Houghton. He had +had his faults and virtues, and good and bad sides just like other boys +of his age. He—oh, I am using too many words, when one slang phrase +will express it. Eddie had been just a nice young kid. I think the +worst thing he had ever said was "Damn!" perhaps. If he had sworn, it +was with clean oaths, calculated to relieve the mind and feelings. +</P> + +<P> +But the men that he shipped with during that year or more—I am sure that +he had never dreamed that such men were. He had never stood on the +curbing outside a recruiting office on South State Street, in the old +levee district, and watched that tragic panorama move by—those nightmare +faces, drink-marred, vice-scarred, ruined. +</P> + +<P> +I know that he had never seen such faces in all his clean, hard-working +young boy's life, spent in our prosperous little country town. I am +certain that he had never heard such words as came from the lips of his +fellow seamen—great mouth-filling, soul-searing words—words unclean, +nauseating, unspeakable, and yet spoken. +</P> + +<P> +I don't say that Eddie Houghton had not taken his drink now and then. +There were certain dark rumors in our town to the effect that favored +ones who dropped into Kunz's more often than seemed needful were +privileged to have a thimbleful of something choice in the prescription +room, back of the partition at the rear of the drug store. But that was +the most devilish thing that Eddie had ever done. +</P> + +<P> +I don't say that all crews are like that one. Perhaps he was unfortunate +in falling in with that one. But it was an Eastern trip, and every port +was a Port Said. Eddie Houghton's thoughts were not these men's +thoughts; his actions were not their actions, his practices were not +their practices. To Eddie Houghton, a Chinese woman in a sampan on the +water front at Shanghai was something picturesque; something about which +to write home to his mother and to Josie. To those other men she was +possible prey. +</P> + +<P> +Those other men saw that he was different, and they pestered him. They +ill-treated him when they could, and made his life a hellish thing. Men +do those things, and people do not speak of it. +</P> + +<P> +I don't know all the things that he suffered. But in his mind, day by +day, grew the great, overwhelming desire to get away from it all—from +this horrible life that was such a dreadful mistake. I think that during +the long night watches his mind was filled with thoughts of our decent +little town—of his mother's kitchen, with its Wednesday and Saturday +scent of new-made bread—of the shady front porch, with its purple +clematis—of the smooth front yard which it was his Saturday duty to mow +that it might be trim and sightly for Sunday—of the boys and girls who +used to drop in at the drug store—those clear-eyed, innocently +coquettish, giggling, blushing girls in their middy blouses and white +skirts, their slender arms and throats browned from tennis and boating, +their eyes smiling into his as they sat perched at the fountain after a +hot set of tennis—those slim, clean young boys, sun-browned, laughing, +their talk all of swimming, and boating, and tennis, and girls. +</P> + +<P> +He did not realize that it was desertion—that thought that grew and grew +in his mind. In it there was nothing of faithlessness to his country. +He was only trying to be true to himself, and to the things that his +mother had taught him. He only knew that he was deadly sick of these +sights of disease, and vice. He only knew that he wanted to get +away—back to his own decent life with the decent people to whom he +belonged. And he went. He went, as a child runs home when it had +tripped and fallen in the mud, not dreaming of wrong-doing or punishment. +</P> + +<P> +The first few hundred miles on the train were a dream. But finally Eddie +found himself talking to a man—a big, lean, blue-eyed western man, who +regarded Eddie with kindly, puzzled eyes. Eddie found himself telling +his story in a disjointed, breathless sort of way. When he had finished +the man uncrossed his long lean legs, took his pipe out of his mouth, and +sat up. There was something of horror in his eyes as he sat, looking at +Eddie. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, kid," he said, at last. "You're deserting! You'll get the pen, +don't you know that, if they catch you? Where you going?" +</P> + +<P> +"Going!" repeated Eddie. "Going! Why, I'm going home, of course." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I don't see what you're gaining," said the man, "because they'll +sure get you there." +</P> + +<P> +Eddie sat staring at the man for a dreadful minute. In that minute the +last of his glorious youth, and ambition, and zest of life departed from +him. +</P> + +<P> +He got off the train at the next town, and the western man offered him +some money, which Eddie declined with all his old-time sweetness of +manner. It was rather a large town, with a great many busy people in it. +Eddie went to a cheap hotel, and took a room, and sat on the edge of the +thin little bed and stared at the carpet. It was a dusty red carpet. In +front of the bureau many feet had worn a hole, so that the bare boards +showed through, with a tuft of ragged red fringe edging them. Eddie +Houghton sat and stared at the worn place with a curiously blank look on +his face. He sat and stared and saw many things. He saw his mother, for +one thing, sitting on the porch with a gingham apron over her light +dress, waiting for him to come home to supper; he saw his own room—a +typical boy's room, with camera pictures and blue prints stuck in the +sides of the dresser mirror, and the boxing gloves on the wall, and his +tennis racquet with one string broken (he had always meant to have that +racquet re-strung) and his track shoes, relics of high school days, flung +in one corner, and his gay-colored school pennants draped to form a +fresco, and the cushion that Josie Morenouse had made for him two years +ago, at Christmas time, and the dainty white bedspread that he, fussed +about because he said it was too sissy for a boy's room—oh, I can't tell +you what he saw as he sat and stared at that worn place in the carpet. +But pretty soon it began to grow dark, and at last he rose, keeping his +fascinated eyes still on the bare spot, walked to the door, opened it, +and backed out queerly, still keeping his eyes on the spot. +</P> + +<P> +He was back again in fifteen minutes, with a bottle in his hand. He +should have known better than to choose carbolic, being a druggist, but +all men are a little mad at such times. He lay down at the edge of the +thin little bed that was little more than a pallet, and he turned his +face toward the bare spot that could just be seen in the gathering gloom. +And when he raised the bottle to his lips the old-time sweetness of his +smile illumined his face. +</P> + +<P> +Where the car turns at Eighteenth Street there is a big, glaring +billboard poster, showing a group of stalwart young men in white ducks +lolling on shores, of tropical splendor, with palms waving overhead, and +a glimpse of blue sea in the distance. The wording beneath it runs +something like this: +</P> + +<P> +"Young men wanted. An unusual opportunity for travel, education and +advancement. Good pay. No expenses." +</P> + +<P> +When I see that sign I think of Eddie Houghton back home. And when I +think of Eddie Houghton I see red. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Buttered Side Down, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUTTERED SIDE DOWN *** + +***** This file should be named 352-h.htm or 352-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/352/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Buttered Side Down + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Release Date: March 28, 2008 [EBook #352] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUTTERED SIDE DOWN *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +BUTTERED SIDE DOWN + + +STORIES + +BY + +EDNA FERBER + + + + + +MARCH, 1912 + + + + +FOREWORD + + +"And so," the story writers used to say, "they lived happily ever after." + +Um-m-m--maybe. After the glamour had worn off, and the glass slippers +were worn out, did the Prince never find Cinderella's manner redolent of +the kitchen hearth; and was it never necessary that he remind her to be +more careful of her finger-nails and grammar? After Puss in Boots had +won wealth and a wife for his young master did not that gentleman often +fume with chagrin because the neighbors, perhaps, refused to call on the +lady of the former poor miller's son? + +It is a great risk to take with one's book-children. These stories make +no such promises. They stop just short of the phrase of the old story +writers, and end truthfully, thus: And so they lived. + +E. F. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. THE FROG AND THE PUDDLE + II. THE MAN WHO CAME BACK + III. WHAT SHE WORE + IV. A BUSH LEAGUE HERO + V. THE KITCHEN SIDE OF THE DOOR + VI. ONE OF THE OLD GIRLS + VII. MAYMEYS FROM CUBA + VIII. THE LEADING LADY + IX. THAT HOME-TOWN FEELING + X. THE HOMELY HEROINE + XI. SUN DRIED + XII. WHERE THE CAR TURNS AT 18TH + + + + +BUTTERED SIDE DOWN + + +I + +THE FROG AND THE PUDDLE + +Any one who has ever written for the magazines (nobody could devise a +more sweeping opening; it includes the iceman who does a humorous article +on the subject of his troubles, and the neglected wife next door, who +journalizes) knows that a story the scene of which is not New York is +merely junk. Take Fifth Avenue as a framework, pad it out to five +thousand words, and there you have the ideal short story. + +Consequently I feel a certain timidity in confessing that I do not know +Fifth Avenue from Hester Street when I see it, because I've never seen +it. It has been said that from the latter to the former is a ten-year +journey, from which I have gathered that they lie some miles apart. As +for Forty-second Street, of which musical comedians carol, I know not if +it be a fashionable shopping thoroughfare or a factory district. + +A confession of this kind is not only good for the soul, but for the +editor. It saves him the trouble of turning to page two. + +This is a story of Chicago, which is a first cousin of New York, although +the two are not on chummy terms. It is a story of that part of Chicago +which lies east of Dearborn Avenue and south of Division Street, and +which may be called the Nottingham curtain district. + +In the Nottingham curtain district every front parlor window is +embellished with a "Rooms With or Without Board" sign. The curtains +themselves have mellowed from their original +department-store-basement-white to a rich, deep tone of Chicago smoke, +which has the notorious London variety beaten by several shades. Block +after block the two-story-and-basement houses stretch, all grimy and +gritty and looking sadly down upon the five square feet of mangy grass +forming the pitiful front yard of each. Now and then the monotonous line +of front stoops is broken by an outjutting basement delicatessen shop. +But not often. The Nottingham curtain district does not run heavily to +delicacies. It is stronger on creamed cabbage and bread pudding. + +Up in the third floor back at Mis' Buck's (elegant rooms $2.50 and up a +week. Gents preferred) Gertie was brushing her hair for the night. One +hundred strokes with a bristle brush. Anyone who reads the beauty column +in the newspapers knows that. There was something heroic in the sight of +Gertie brushing her hair one hundred strokes before going to bed at +night. Only a woman could understand her doing it. + +Gertie clerked downtown on State Street, in a gents' glove department. A +gents' glove department requires careful dressing on the part of its +clerks, and the manager, in selecting them, is particular about choosing +"lookers," with especial attention to figure, hair, and finger nails. +Gertie was a looker. Providence had taken care of that. But you cannot +leave your hair and finger nails to Providence. They demand coaxing with +a bristle brush and an orangewood stick. + +Now clerking, as Gertie would tell you, is fierce on the feet. And when +your feet are tired you are tired all over. Gertie's feet were tired +every night. About eight-thirty she longed to peel off her clothes, drop +them in a heap on the floor, and tumble, unbrushed, unwashed, +unmanicured, into bed. She never did it. + +Things had been particularly trying to-night. After washing out three +handkerchiefs and pasting them with practised hand over the mirror, +Gertie had taken off her shoes and discovered a hole the size of a silver +quarter in the heel of her left stocking. Gertie had a country-bred +horror of holey stockings. She darned the hole, yawning, her aching feet +pressed against the smooth, cool leg of the iron bed. That done, she had +had the colossal courage to wash her face, slap cold cream on it, and +push back the cuticle around her nails. + +Seated huddled on the side of her thin little iron bed, Gertie was +brushing her hair bravely, counting the strokes somewhere in her +sub-conscious mind and thinking busily all the while of something else. +Her brush rose, fell, swept downward, rose, fell, rhythmically. + +"Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety---- Oh, darn it! What's +the use!" cried Gertie, and hurled the brush across the room with a crack. + +She sat looking after it with wide, staring eyes until the brush blurred +in with the faded red roses on the carpet. When she found it doing that +she got up, wadded her hair viciously into a hard bun in the back instead +of braiding it carefully as usual, crossed the room (it wasn't much of a +trip), picked up the brush, and stood looking down at it, her under lip +caught between her teeth. That is the humiliating part of losing your +temper and throwing things. You have to come down to picking them up, +anyway. + +Her lip still held prisoner, Gertie tossed the brush on the bureau, +fastened her nightgown at the throat with a safety pin, turned out the +gas and crawled into bed. + +Perhaps the hard bun at the back of her head kept her awake. She lay +there with her eyes wide open and sleepless, staring into the darkness. + +At midnight the Kid Next Door came in whistling, like one unused to +boarding-house rules. Gertie liked him for that. At the head of the +stairs he stopped whistling and came softly into his own third floor back +just next to Gertie's. Gertie liked him for that, too. + +The two rooms had been one in the fashionable days of the Nottingham +curtain district, long before the advent of Mis' Buck. That thrifty +lady, on coming into possession, had caused a flimsy partition to be run +up, slicing the room in twain and doubling its rental. + +Lying there Gertie could hear the Kid Next Door moving about getting +ready for bed and humming "Every Little Movement Has a Meaning of Its +Own" very lightly, under his breath. He polished his shoes briskly, and +Gertie smiled there in the darkness of her own room in sympathy. Poor +kid, he had his beauty struggles, too. + +Gertie had never seen the Kid Next Door, although he had come four months +ago. But she knew he wasn't a grouch, because he alternately whistled +and sang off-key tenor while dressing in the morning. She had also +discovered that his bed must run along the same wall against which her +bed was pushed. Gertie told herself that there was something almost +immodest about being able to hear him breathing as he slept. He had +tumbled into bed with a little grunt of weariness. + +Gertie lay there another hour, staring into the darkness. Then she began +to cry softly, lying on her face with her head between her arms. The +cold cream and the salt tears mingled and formed a slippery paste. +Gertie wept on because she couldn't help it. The longer she wept the +more difficult her sobs became, until finally they bordered on the +hysterical. They filled her lungs until they ached and reached her +throat with a force that jerked her head back. + +"Rap-rap-rap!" sounded sharply from the head of her bed. + +Gertie stopped sobbing, and her heart stopped beating. She lay tense and +still, listening. Everyone knows that spooks rap three times at the head +of one's bed. It's a regular high-sign with them. + +"Rap-rap-rap!" + +Gertie's skin became goose-flesh, and coldwater effects chased up and +down her spine. + +"What's your trouble in there?" demanded an unspooky voice so near that +Gertie jumped. "Sick?" + +It was the Kid Next Door. + +"N-no, I'm not sick," faltered Gertie, her mouth close to the wall. Just +then a belated sob that had stopped halfway when the raps began hustled +on to join its sisters. It took Gertie by surprise, and brought prompt +response from the other side of the wall. + +"I'll bet I scared you green. I didn't mean to, but, on the square, if +you're feeling sick, a little nip of brandy will set you up. Excuse my +mentioning it, girlie, but I'd do the same for my sister. I hate like +sin to hear a woman suffer like that, and, anyway, I don't know whether +you're fourteen or forty, so it's perfectly respectable. I'll get the +bottle and leave it outside your door." + +"No you don't!" answered Gertie in a hollow voice, praying meanwhile that +the woman in the room below might be sleeping. "I'm not sick, honestly +I'm not. I'm just as much obliged, and I'm dead sorry I woke you up with +my blubbering. I started out with the soft pedal on, but things got away +from me. Can you hear me?" + +"Like a phonograph. Sure you couldn't use a sip of brandy where it'd do +the most good?" + +"Sure." + +"Well, then, cut out the weeps and get your beauty sleep, kid. He ain't +worth sobbing over, anyway, believe me." + +"He!" snorted Gertie indignantly. "You're cold. There never was +anything in peg-tops that could make me carry on like the heroine of the +Elsie series." + +"Lost your job?" + +"No such luck." + +"Well, then, what in Sam Hill could make a woman----" + +"Lonesome!" snapped Gertie. "And the floorwalker got fresh to-day. And +I found two gray hairs to-night. And I'd give my next week's pay +envelope to hear the double click that our front gate gives back home." + +"Back home!" echoed the Kid Next Door in a dangerously loud voice. "Say, +I want to talk to you. If you'll promise you won't get sore and think +I'm fresh, I'll ask you a favor. Slip on a kimono and we'll sneak down +to the front stoop and talk it over. I'm as wide awake as a chorus girl +and twice as hungry. I've got two apples and a box of crackers. Are you +on?" + +Gertie snickered. "It isn't done in our best sets, but I'm on. I've got +a can of sardines and an orange. I'll be ready in six minutes." + +She was, too. She wiped off the cold cream and salt tears with a dry +towel, did her hair in a schoolgirl braid and tied it with a big bow, and +dressed herself in a black skirt and a baby blue dressing sacque. The +Kid Next Door was waiting outside in the hall. His gray sweater covered +a multitude of sartorial deficiencies. Gertie stared at him, and he +stared at Gertie in the sickly blue light of the boarding-house hall, and +it took her one-half of one second to discover that she liked his mouth, +and his eyes, and the way his hair was mussed. + +"Why, you're only a kid!" whispered the Kid Next Door, in surprise. + +Gertie smothered a laugh. "You're not the first man that's been deceived +by a pig-tail braid and a baby blue waist. I could locate those two gray +hairs for you with my eyes shut and my feet in a sack. Come on, boy. +These Robert W. Chambers situations make me nervous." + +Many earnest young writers with a flow of adjectives and a passion for +detail have attempted to describe the quiet of a great city at night, +when a few million people within it are sleeping, or ought to be. They +work in the clang of a distant owl car, and the roar of an occasional "L" +train, and the hollow echo of the footsteps of the late passer-by. They +go elaborately into description, and are strong on the brooding hush, but +the thing has never been done satisfactorily. + +Gertie, sitting on the front stoop at two in the morning, with her orange +in one hand and the sardine can in the other, put it this way: + +"If I was to hear a cricket chirp now, I'd screech. This isn't really +quiet. It's like waiting for a cannon cracker to go off just before the +fuse is burned down. The bang isn't there yet, but you hear it a hundred +times in your mind before it happens." + +"My name's Augustus G. Eddy," announced the Kid Next Door, solemnly. +"Back home they always called me Gus. You peel that orange while I +unroll the top of this sardine can. I'm guilty of having interrupted you +in the middle of what the girls call a good cry, and I know you'll have +to get it out of your system some way. Take a bite of apple and then +wade right in and tell me what you're doing in this burg if you don't +like it." + +"This thing ought to have slow music," began Gertie. "It's pathetic. I +came to Chicago from Beloit, Wisconsin, because I thought that little +town was a lonesome hole for a vivacious creature like me. Lonesome! +Listen while I laugh a low mirthless laugh. I didn't know anything about +the three-ply, double-barreled, extra heavy brand of lonesomeness that a +big town like this can deal out. Talk about your desert wastes! They're +sociable and snug compared to this. I know three-fourths of the people +in Beloit, Wisconsin, by their first names. I've lived here six months +and I'm not on informal terms with anybody except Teddy, the landlady's +dog, and he's a trained rat-and-book-agent terrier, and not inclined to +overfriendliness. When I clerked at the Enterprise Store in Beloit the +women used to come in and ask for something we didn't carry just for an +excuse to copy the way the lace yoke effects were planned in my +shirtwaists. You ought to see the way those same shirtwaist stack up +here. Why, boy, the lingerie waists that the other girls in my +department wear make my best hand-tucked effort look like a simple +English country blouse. They're so dripping with Irish crochet and real +Val and Cluny insertions that it's a wonder the girls don't get +stoop-shouldered carrying 'em around." + +"Hold on a minute," commanded Gus. "This thing is uncanny. Our cases +dovetail like the deductions in a detective story. Kneel here at my +feet, little daughter, and I'll tell you the story of my sad young life. +I'm no child of the city streets, either. Say, I came to this town +because I thought there was a bigger field for me in Gents' Furnishings. +Joke, what?" + +But Gertie didn't smile. She gazed up at Gus, and Gus gazed down at her, +and his fingers fiddled absently with the big bow at the end of her braid. + +"And isn't there?" asked Gertie, sympathetically. + +"Girlie, I haven't saved twelve dollars since I came. I'm no tightwad, +and I don't believe in packing everything away into a white marble +mausoleum, but still a gink kind of whispers to himself that some day +he'll be furnishing up a kitchen pantry of his own." + +"Oh!" said Gertie. + +"And let me mention in passing," continued Gus, winding the ribbon bow +around his finger, "that in the last hour or so that whisper has been +swelling to a shout." + +"Oh!" said Gertie again. + +"You said it. But I couldn't buy a secondhand gas stove with what I've +saved in the last half-year here. Back home they used to think I was a +regular little village John Drew, I was so dressy. But here I look like +a yokel on circus day compared to the other fellows in the store. All +they need is a field glass strung over their shoulder to make them look +like a clothing ad in the back of a popular magazine. Say, girlie, +you've got the prettiest hair I've seen since I blew in here. Look at +that braid! Thick as a rope! That's no relation to the piles of jute +that the Flossies here stack on their heads. And shines! Like satin." + +"It ought to," said Gertrude, wearily. "I brush it a hundred strokes +every night. Sometimes I'm so beat that I fall asleep with my brush in +the air. The manager won't stand for any romping curls or hooks-and-eyes +that don't connect. It keeps me so busy being beautiful, and what the +society writers call 'well groomed,' that I don't have time to sew the +buttons on my underclothes." + +"But don't you get some amusement in the evening?" marveled Gus. "What +was the matter with you and the other girls in the store? Can't you hit +it off?" + +"Me? No. I guess I was too woodsy for them. I went out with them a +couple of times. I guess they're nice girls all right; but they've got +what you call a broader way of looking at things than I have. Living in +a little town all your life makes you narrow. These girls!--Well, maybe +I'll get educated up to their plane some day, but----" + +"No, you don't!" hissed Gus. "Not if I can help it." + +"But you can't," replied Gertie, sweetly. "My, ain't this a grand night! +Evenings like this I used to love to putter around the yard after supper, +sprinkling the grass and weeding the radishes. I'm the greatest kid to +fool around with a hose. And flowers! Say, they just grow for me. You +ought to have seen my pansies and nasturtiums last summer." + +The fingers of the Kid Next Door wandered until they found Gertie's. +They clasped them. + +"This thing just points one way, little one. It's just as plain as a +path leading up to a cozy little three-room flat up here on the North +Side somewhere. See it? With me and you married, and playing at +housekeeping in a parlor and bedroom and kitchen? And both of us going +down town to work in the morning just the same as we do now. Only not +the same, either." + +"Wake up, little boy," said Gertie, prying her fingers away from those +other detaining ones. "I'd fit into a three-room flat like a whale in a +kitchen sink. I'm going back to Beloit, Wisconsin. I've learned my +lesson all right. There's a fellow there waiting for me. I used to +think he was too slow. But say, he's got the nicest little painting and +paper-hanging business you ever saw, and making money. He's secretary of +the K. P.'s back home. They give some swell little dances during the +winter, especially for the married members. In five years we'll own our +home, with a vegetable garden in the back. I'm a little frog, and it's +me for the puddle." + +Gus stood up slowly. Gertie felt a little pang of compunction when she +saw what a boy he was. + +"I don't know when I've enjoyed a talk like this. I've heard about these +dawn teas, but I never thought I'd go to one," she said. + +"Good-night, girlie," interrupted Gus, abruptly. "It's the dreamless +couch for mine. We've got a big sale on in tan and black seconds +to-morrow." + + + + +II + +THE MAN WHO CAME BACK + +There are two ways of doing battle against Disgrace. You may live it +down; or you may run away from it and hide. The first method is +heart-breaking, but sure. The second cannot be relied upon because of +the uncomfortable way Disgrace has of turning up at your heels just when +you think you have eluded her in the last town but one. + +Ted Terrill did not choose the first method. He had it thrust upon him. +After Ted had served his term he came back home to visit his mother's +grave, intending to take the next train out. He wore none of the prison +pallor that you read about in books, because he had been shortstop on the +penitentiary all-star baseball team, and famed for the dexterity with +which he could grab up red-hot grounders. The storied lock step and the +clipped hair effect also were missing. The superintendent of Ted's +prison had been one of the reform kind. + +You never would have picked Ted for a criminal. He had none of those +interesting phrenological bumps and depressions that usually are shown to +such frank advantage in the Bertillon photographs. Ted had been +assistant cashier in the Citizens' National Bank. In a mad moment he had +attempted a little sleight-of-hand act in which certain Citizens' +National funds were to be transformed into certain glittering shares and +back again so quickly that the examiners couldn't follow it with their +eyes. But Ted was unaccustomed to these now-you-see-it-and-now-you-don't +feats and his hand slipped. The trick dropped to the floor with an awful +clatter. + +Ted had been a lovable young kid, six feet high, and blonde, with a great +reputation as a dresser. He had the first yellow plush hat in our town. +It sat on his golden head like a halo. The women all liked Ted. Mrs. +Dankworth, the dashing widow (why will widows persist in being dashing?), +said that he was the only man in our town who knew how to wear a dress +suit. The men were forever slapping him on the back and asking him to +have a little something. + +Ted's good looks and his clever tongue and a certain charming Irish way +he had with him caused him to be taken up by the smart set. Now, if +you've never lived in a small town you will be much amused at the idea of +its boasting a smart set. Which proves your ignorance. The small town +smart set is deadly serious about its smartness. It likes to take +six-hour runs down to the city to fit a pair of shoes and hear Caruso. +Its clothes are as well made, and its scandals as crisp, and its pace as +hasty, and its golf club as dull as the clothes, and scandals, and pace, +and golf club of its city cousins. + +The hasty pace killed Ted. He tried to keep step in a set of young folks +whose fathers had made our town. And all the time his pocketbook was +yelling, "Whoa!" The young people ran largely to scarlet-upholstered +touring cars, and country-club doings, and house parties, as small town +younger generations are apt to. When Ted went to high school half the +boys in his little clique spent their after-school hours dashing up and +down Main street in their big, glittering cars, sitting slumped down on +the middle of their spines in front of the steering wheel, their sleeves +rolled up, their hair combed a militant pompadour. One or the other of +them always took Ted along. It is fearfully easy to develop a taste for +that kind of thing. As he grew older, the taste took root and became a +habit. + +Ted came out after serving his term, still handsome, spite of all that +story-writers may have taught to the contrary. But we'll make this +concession to the old tradition. There was a difference. + +His radiant blondeur was dimmed in some intangible, elusive way. Birdie +Callahan, who had worked in Ted's mother's kitchen for years, and who had +gone back to her old job at the Haley House after her mistress's death, +put it sadly, thus: + +"He was always th' han'some divil. I used to look forward to ironin' day +just for the pleasure of pressin' his fancy shirts for him. I'm that +partial to them swell blondes. But I dinnaw, he's changed. Doin' time +has taken the edge off his hair an' complexion. Not changed his color, +do yuh mind, but dulled it, like a gold ring, or the like, that has +tarnished." + +Ted was seated in the smoker, with a chip on his shoulder, and a sick +horror of encountering some one he knew in his heart, when Jo Haley, of +the Haley House, got on at Westport, homeward bound. Jo Haley is the +most eligible bachelor in our town, and the slipperiest. He has made the +Haley House a gem, so that traveling men will cut half a dozen towns to +Sunday there. If he should say "Jump through this!" to any girl in our +town she'd jump. + +Jo Haley strolled leisurely up the car aisle toward Ted. Ted saw him +coming and sat very still, waiting. + +"Hello, Ted! How's Ted?" said Jo Haley, casually. And dropped into the +adjoining seat without any more fuss. + +Ted wet his lips slightly and tried to say something. He had been a +breezy talker. But the words would not come. Jo Haley made no effort to +cover the situation with a rush of conversation. He did not seem to +realize that there was any situation to cover. He champed the end of his +cigar and handed one to Ted. + +"Well, you've taken your lickin', kid. What you going to do now?" + +The rawness of it made Ted wince. "Oh, I don't know," he stammered. +"I've a job half promised in Chicago." + +"What doing?" + +Ted laughed a short and ugly laugh. "Driving a brewery auto truck." + +Jo Haley tossed his cigar dexterously to the opposite corner of his mouth +and squinted thoughtfully along its bulging sides. + +"Remember that Wenzel girl that's kept books for me for the last six +years? She's leaving in a couple of months to marry a New York guy that +travels for ladies' cloaks and suits. After she goes it's nix with the +lady bookkeepers for me. Not that Minnie isn't a good, straight girl, +and honest, but no girl can keep books with one eye on a column of +figures and the other on a traveling man in a brown suit and a red +necktie, unless she's cross-eyed, and you bet Minnie ain't. The job's +yours if you want it. Eighty a month to start on, and board." + +"I--can't, Jo. Thanks just the same. I'm going to try to begin all over +again, somewhere else, where nobody knows me." + +"Oh yes," said Jo. "I knew a fellow that did that. After he came out he +grew a beard, and wore eyeglasses, and changed his name. Had a quick, +crisp way of talkin', and he cultivated a drawl and went west and started +in business. Real estate, I think. Anyway, the second month he was +there in walks a fool he used to know and bellows: 'Why if it ain't +Bill! Hello, Bill! I thought you was doing time yet.' That was enough. +Ted, you can black your face, and dye your hair, and squint, and some +fine day, sooner or later, somebody'll come along and blab the whole +thing. And say, the older it gets the worse it sounds, when it does come +out. Stick around here where you grew up, Ted." + +Ted clasped and unclasped his hands uncomfortably. "I can't figure out +why you should care how I finish." + +"No reason," answered Jo. "Not a darned one. I wasn't ever in love with +your ma, like the guy on the stage; and I never owed your pa a cent. So +it ain't a guilty conscience. I guess it's just pure cussedness, and a +hankerin' for a new investment. I'm curious to know how'll you turn out. +You've got the makin's of what the newspapers call a Leading Citizen, +even if you did fall down once. If I'd ever had time to get married, +which I never will have, a first-class hotel bein' more worry and expense +than a Pittsburg steel magnate's whole harem, I'd have wanted somebody to +do the same for my kid. That sounds slushy, but it's straight." + +"I don't seem to know how to thank you," began Ted, a little husky as to +voice. + +"Call around to-morrow morning," interrupted Jo Haley, briskly, "and +Minnie Wenzel will show you the ropes. You and her can work together for +a couple of months. After then she's leaving to make her underwear, and +that. I should think she'd have a bale of it by this time. Been +embroidering them shimmy things and lunch cloths back of the desk when +she thought I wasn't lookin' for the last six months." + +Ted came down next morning at 8 A.M. with his nerve between his teeth and +the chip still balanced lightly on his shoulder. Five minutes later +Minnie Wenzel knocked it off. When Jo Haley introduced the two +jocularly, knowing that they had originally met in the First Reader room, +Miss Wenzel acknowledged the introduction icily by lifting her left +eyebrow slightly and drawing down the corners of her mouth. Her air of +hauteur was a triumph, considering that she was handicapped by black +sateen sleevelets. + +I wonder how one could best describe Miss Wenzel? There is one of her in +every small town. Let me think (business of hand on brow). Well, she +always paid eight dollars for her corsets when most girls in a similar +position got theirs for fifty-nine cents in the basement. Nature had +been kind to her. The hair that had been a muddy brown in Minnie's +schoolgirl days it had touched with a magic red-gold wand. Birdie +Callahan always said that Minnie was working only to wear out her old +clothes. + +After the introduction Miss Wenzel followed Jo Haley into the lobby. She +took no pains to lower her voice. + +"Well I must say, Mr. Haley, you've got a fine nerve! If my gentleman +friend was to hear of my working with an ex-con I wouldn't be surprised +if he'd break off the engagement. I should think you'd have some respect +for the feelings of a lady with a name to keep up, and engaged to a swell +fellow like Mr. Schwartz." + +"Say, listen, m' girl," replied Jo Haley. "The law don't cover all the +tricks. But if stuffing an order was a criminal offense I'll bet your +swell traveling man would be doing a life term." + +Ted worked that day with his teeth set so that his jaws ached next +morning. Minnie Wenzel spoke to him only when necessary and then in +terms of dollars and cents. When dinner time came she divested herself +of the black sateen sleevelets, wriggled from the shoulders down a la +Patricia O'Brien, produced a chamois skin, and disappeared in the +direction of the washroom. Ted waited until the dining-room was almost +deserted. Then he went in to dinner alone. Some one in white wearing an +absurd little pocket handkerchief of an apron led him to a seat in a far +corner of the big room. Ted did not lift his eyes higher than the snowy +square of the apron. The Apron drew out a chair, shoved it under Ted's +knees in the way Aprons have, and thrust a printed menu at him. + +"Roast beef, medium," said Ted, without looking up. + +"Bless your heart, yuh ain't changed a bit. I remember how yuh used to +jaw when it was too well done," said the Apron, fondly. + +Ted's head came up with a jerk. + +"So yuh will cut yer old friends, is it?" grinned Birdie Callahan. "If +this wasn't a public dining-room maybe yuh'd shake hands with a poor but +proud workin' girrul. Yer as good lookin' a divil as ever, Mister Ted." + +Ted's hand shot out and grasped hers. "Birdie! I could weep on your +apron! I never was so glad to see any one in my life. Just to look at +you makes me homesick. What in Sam Hill are you doing here?" + +"Waitin'. After yer ma died, seemed like I didn't care t' work fer no +other privit fam'ly, so I came back here on my old job. I'll bet I'm the +homeliest head waitress in captivity." + +Ted's nervous fingers were pleating the tablecloth. His voice sank to a +whisper. "Birdie, tell me the God's truth. Did those three years cause +her death?" + +"Niver!" lied Birdie. "I was with her to the end. It started with a +cold on th' chest. Have some French fried with yer beef, Mr. Teddy. +They're illigent to-day." + +Birdie glided off to the kitchen. Authors are fond of the word "glide." +But you can take it literally this time. Birdie had a face that looked +like a huge mistake, but she walked like a panther, and they're said to +be the last cry as gliders. She walked with her chin up and her hips +firm. That comes from juggling trays. You have to walk like that to +keep your nose out of the soup. After a while the walk becomes a habit. +Any seasoned dining-room girl could give lessons in walking to the +Delsarte teacher of an Eastern finishing school. + +From the day that Birdie Callahan served Ted with the roast beef medium +and the elegant French fried, she appointed herself monitor over his food +and clothes and morals. I wish I could find words to describe his bitter +loneliness. He did not seek companionship. The men, although not +directly avoiding him, seemed somehow to have pressing business whenever +they happened in his vicinity. The women ignored him. Mrs. Dankworth, +still dashing and still widowed, passed Ted one day and looked fixedly at +a point one inch above his head. In a town like ours the Haley House is +like a big, hospitable clubhouse. The men drop in there the first thing +in the morning, and the last thing at night, to hear the gossip and buy a +cigar and jolly the girl at the cigar counter. Ted spoke to them when +they spoke to him. He began to develop a certain grim line about the +mouth. Jo Haley watched him from afar, and the longer he watched the +kinder and more speculative grew the look in his eyes. And slowly and +surely there grew in the hearts of our townspeople a certain new respect +and admiration for this boy who was fighting his fight. + +Ted got into the habit of taking his meals late, so that Birdie Callahan +could take the time to talk to him. + +"Birdie," he said one day, when she brought his soup, "do you know that +you're the only decent woman who'll talk to me? Do you know what I mean +when I say that I'd give the rest of my life if I could just put my head +in my mother's lap and have her muss up my hair and call me foolish +names?" + +Birdie Callahan cleared her throat and said abruptly: "I was noticin' +yesterday your gray pants needs pressin' bad. Bring 'em down tomorrow +mornin' and I'll give 'em th' elegant crease in the laundry." + +So the first weeks went by, and the two months of Miss Wenzel's stay came +to an end. Ted thanked his God and tried hard not to wish that she was a +man so that he could punch her head. + +The day before the time appointed for her departure she was closeted with +Jo Haley for a long, long time. When finally she emerged a bellboy +lounged up to Ted with a message. + +"Wenzel says th' Old Man wants t' see you. 'S in his office. Say, Mr. +Terrill, do yuh think they can play to-day? It's pretty wet." + +Jo Haley was sunk in the depths of his big leather chair. He did not +look up as Ted entered. "Sit down," he said. Ted sat down and waited, +puzzled. + +"As a wizard at figures," mused Jo Haley at last, softly as though to +himself, "I'm a frost. A column of figures on paper makes my head swim. +But I can carry a whole regiment of 'em in my head. I know every time +the barkeeper draws one in the dark. I've been watchin' this thing for +the last two weeks hopin' you'd quit and come and tell me." He turned +suddenly and faced Ted. "Ted, old kid," he said sadly, "what'n'ell made +you do it again?" + +"What's the joke?" asked Ted. + +"Now, Ted," remonstrated Jo Haley, "that way of talkin' won't help +matters none. As I said, I'm rotten at figures. But you're the first +investment that ever turned out bad, and let me tell you I've handled +some mighty bad smelling ones. Why, kid, if you had just come to me on +the quiet and asked for the loan of a hundred or so why----" + +"What's the joke, Jo?" said Ted again, slowly. + +"This ain't my notion of a joke," came the terse answer. "We're three +hundred short." + +The last vestige of Ted Terrill's old-time radiance seemed to flicker and +die, leaving him ashen and old. + +"Short?" he repeated. Then, "My God!" in a strangely colorless +voice--"My God!" He looked down at his fingers impersonally, as though +they belonged to some one else. Then his hand clutched Jo Haley's arm +with the grip of fear. "Jo! Jo! That's the thing that has haunted me +day and night, till my nerves are raw. The fear of doing it again. +Don't laugh at me, will you? I used to lie awake nights going over that +cursed business of the bank--over and over--till the cold sweat would +break out all over me. I used to figure it all out again, step by step, +until--Jo, could a man steal and not know it? Could thinking of a thing +like that drive a man crazy? Because if it could--if it could--then----" + +"I don't know," said Jo Haley, "but it sounds darned fishy." He had a +hand on Ted's shaking shoulder, and was looking into the white, drawn +face. "I had great plans for you, Ted. But Minnie Wenzel's got it all +down on slips of paper. I might as well call her, in again, and we'll +have the whole blamed thing out." + +Minnie Wenzel came. In her hand were slips of paper, and books with +figures in them, and Ted looked and saw things written in his own hand +that should not have been there. And he covered his shamed face with his +two hands and gave thanks that his mother was dead. + +There came three sharp raps at the office door. The tense figures within +jumped nervously. + +"Keep out!" called Jo Haley, "whoever you are." Whereupon the door +opened and Birdie Callahan breezed in. + +"Get out, Birdie Callahan," roared Jo. "You're in the wrong pew." + +Birdie closed the door behind her composedly and came farther into the +room. "Pete th' pasthry cook just tells me that Minnie Wenzel told th' +day clerk, who told the barkeep, who told th' janitor, who told th' chef, +who told Pete, that Minnie had caught Ted stealin' some three hundred +dollars." + +Ted took a quick step forward. "Birdie, for Heaven's sake keep out of +this. You can't make things any better. You may believe in me, but----" + +"Where's the money?" asked Birdie. + +Ted stared at her a moment, his mouth open ludicrously. + +"Why--I--don't--know," he articulated, painfully. "I never thought of +that." + +Birdie snorted defiantly. "I thought so. D'ye know," sociably, "I was +visitin' with my aunt Mis' Mulcahy last evenin'." + +There was a quick rustle of silks from Minnie Wenzel's direction. + +"Say, look here----" began Jo Haley, impatiently. + +"Shut up, Jo Haley!" snapped Birdie. "As I was sayin', I was visitin' +with my aunt Mis' Mulcahy. She does fancy washin' an' ironin' for the +swells. An' Minnie Wenzel, there bein' none sweller, hires her to do up +her weddin' linens. Such smears av hand embridery an' Irish crochet she +never see th' likes, Mis' Mulcahy says, and she's seen a lot. And as a +special treat to the poor owld soul, why Minnie Wenzel lets her see some +av her weddin' clo'es. There never yet was a woman who cud resist +showin' her weddin' things to every other woman she cud lay hands on. +Well, Mis' Mulcahy, she see that grand trewsow and she said she never saw +th' beat. Dresses! Well, her going away suit alone comes to eighty +dollars, for it's bein' made by Molkowsky, the little Polish tailor. An' +her weddin' dress is satin, do yuh mind! Oh, it was a real treat for my +aunt Mis' Mulcahy." + +Birdie walked over to where Minnie Wenzel sat, very white and still, and +pointed a stubby red finger in her face. "'Tis the grand manager ye are, +Miss Wenzel, gettin' satins an' tailor-mades on yer salary. It takes a +woman, Minnie Wenzel, to see through a woman's thricks." + +"Well I'll be dinged!" exploded Jo Haley. + +"Yuh'd better be!" retorted Birdie Callahan. + +Minnie Wenzel stood up, her lip caught between her teeth. + +"Am I to understand, Jo Haley, that you dare to accuse me of taking your +filthy money, instead of that miserable ex-con there who has done time?" + +"That'll do, Minnie," said Jo Haley, gently. "That's a-plenty." + +"Prove it," went on Minnie, and then looked as though she wished she +hadn't. + +"A business college edjication is a grand foine thing," observed Birdie. +"Miss Wenzel is a graduate av wan. They teach you everything from +drawin' birds with tail feathers to plain and fancy penmanship. In fact, +they teach everything in the writin' line except forgery, an' I ain't so +sure they haven't got a coorse in that." + +"I don't care," whimpered Minnie Wenzel suddenly, sinking in a limp heap +on the floor. "I had to do it. I'm marrying a swell fellow and a girl's +got to have some clothes that don't look like a Bird Center dressmaker's +work. He's got three sisters. I saw their pictures and they're coming +to the wedding. They're the kind that wear low-necked dresses in the +evening, and have their hair and nails done downtown. I haven't got a +thing but my looks. Could I go to New York dressed like a rube? On the +square, Jo, I worked here six years and never took a sou. But things got +away from me. The tailor wouldn't finish my suit unless I paid him fifty +dollars down. I only took fifty at first, intending to pay it back. +Honest to goodness, Jo, I did." + +"Cut it out," said Jo Haley, "and get up. I was going to give you a +check for your wedding, though I hadn't counted on no three hundred. +We'll call it square. And I hope you'll be happy, but I don't gamble on +it. You'll be goin' through your man's pants pockets before you're +married a year. You can take your hat and fade. I'd like to know how +I'm ever going to square this thing with Ted and Birdie." + +"An' me standin' here gassin' while them fool girls in the dinin'-room +can't set a table decent, and dinner in less than ten minutes," cried +Birdie, rushing off. Ted mumbled something unintelligible and was after +her. + +"Birdie! I want to talk to you." + +"Say it quick then," said Birdie, over her shoulder. "The doors open in +three minnits." + +"I can't tell you how grateful I am. This is no place to talk to you. +Will you let me walk home with you to-night after your work's done?" + +"Will I?" said Birdie, turning to face him. "I will not. Th' swell mob +has shook you, an' a good thing it is. You was travelin' with a bunch of +racers, when you was only built for medium speed. Now you're got your +chance to a fresh start and don't you ever think I'm going to be the one +to let you spoil it by beginnin' to walk out with a dinin'-room Lizzie +like me." + +"Don't say that, Birdie," Ted put in. + +"It's the truth," affirmed Birdie. "Not that I ain't a perfec'ly +respectable girrul, and ye know it. I'm a good slob, but folks would be +tickled for the chance to say that you had nobody to go with but the +likes av me. If I was to let you walk home with me to-night, yuh might +be askin' to call next week. Inside half a year, if yuh was lonesome +enough, yuh'd ask me to marry yuh. And b'gorra," she said softly, +looking down at her unlovely red hands, "I'm dead scared I'd do it. Get +back to work, Ted Terrill, and hold yer head up high, and when yuh say +your prayers to-night, thank your lucky stars I ain't a hussy." + + + + +III + +WHAT SHE WORE + +Somewhere in your story you must pause to describe your heroine's +costume. It is a ticklish task. The average reader likes his heroine +well dressed. He is not satisfied with knowing that she looked like a +tall, fair lily. He wants to be told that her gown was of green crepe, +with lace ruffles that swirled at her feet. Writers used to go so far as +to name the dressmaker; and it was a poor kind of a heroine who didn't +wear a red velvet by Worth. But that has been largely abandoned in these +days of commissions. Still, when the heroine goes out on the terrace to +spoon after dinner (a quaint old English custom for the origin of which +see any novel by the "Duchess," page 179) the average reader wants to +know what sort of a filmy wrap she snatches up on the way out. He +demands a description, with as many illustrations as the publisher will +stand for, of what she wore from the bedroom to the street, with full +stops for the ribbons on her robe de nuit, and the buckles on her +ballroom slippers. Half the poor creatures one sees flattening their +noses against the shop windows are authors getting a line on the advance +fashions. Suppose a careless writer were to dress his heroine in a +full-plaited skirt only to find, when his story is published four months +later, that full-plaited skirts have been relegated to the dim past! + +I started to read a story once. It was a good one. There was in it not +a single allusion to brandy-and-soda, or divorce, or the stock market. +The dialogue crackled. The hero talked like a live man. It was a +shipboard story, and the heroine was charming so long as she wore her +heavy ulster. But along toward evening she blossomed forth in a yellow +gown, with a scarlet poinsettia at her throat. I quit her cold. Nobody +ever wore a scarlet poinsettia; or if they did, they couldn't wear it on +a yellow gown. Or if they did wear it with a yellow gown, they didn't +wear it at the throat. Scarlet poinsettias aren't worn, anyhow. To this +day I don't know whether the heroine married the hero or jumped overboard. + +You see, one can't be too careful about clothing one's heroine. + +I hesitate to describe Sophy Epstein's dress. You won't like it. In the +first place, it was cut too low, front and back, for a shoe clerk in a +downtown loft. It was a black dress, near-princess in style, very tight +as to fit, very short as to skirt, very sleazy as to material. It showed +all the delicate curves of Sophy's under-fed, girlish body, and Sophy +didn't care a bit. Its most objectionable feature was at the throat. +Collarless gowns were in vogue. Sophy's daring shears had gone a snip or +two farther. They had cut a startlingly generous V. To say that the +dress was elbow-sleeved is superfluous. I have said that Sophy clerked +in a downtown loft. + +Sophy sold "sample" shoes at two-fifty a pair, and from where you were +standing you thought they looked just like the shoes that were sold in +the regular shops for six. When Sophy sat on one of the low benches at +the feet of some customer, tugging away at a refractory shoe for a +would-be small foot, her shameless little gown exposed more than it +should have. But few of Sophy's customers were shocked. They were +mainly chorus girls and ladies of doubtful complexion in search of cheap +and ultra footgear, and--to use a health term--hardened by exposure. + +Have I told you how pretty she was? She was so pretty that you +immediately forgave her the indecency of her pitiful little gown. She +was pretty in a daringly demure fashion, like a wicked little Puritan, or +a poverty-stricken Cleo de Merode, with her smooth brown hair parted in +the middle, drawn severely down over her ears, framing the lovely oval of +her face and ending in a simple coil at the neck. Some serpent's wisdom +had told Sophy to eschew puffs. But I think her prettiness could have +triumphed even over those. + +If Sophy's boss had been any other sort of man he would have informed +Sophy, sternly, that black princess effects, cut low, were not au fait in +the shoe-clerk world. But Sophy's boss had a rhombic nose, and no +instep, and the tail of his name had been amputated. He didn't care how +Sophy wore her dresses so long as she sold shoes. + +Once the boss had kissed Sophy--not on the mouth, but just where her +shabby gown formed its charming but immodest V. Sophy had slapped him, +of course. But the slap had not set the thing right in her mind. She +could not forget it. It had made her uncomfortable in much the same way +as we are wildly ill at ease when we dream of walking naked in a crowded +street. At odd moments during the day Sophy had found herself rubbing +the spot furiously with her unlovely handkerchief, and shivering a +little. She had never told the other girls about that kiss. + +So--there you have Sophy and her costume. You may take her or leave her. +I purposely placed these defects in costuming right at the beginning of +the story, so that there should be no false pretenses. One more detail. +About Sophy's throat was a slender, near-gold chain from which was +suspended a cheap and glittering La Valliere. Sophy had not intended it +as a sop to the conventions. It was an offering on the shrine of +Fashion, and represented many lunchless days. + +At eleven o'clock one August morning, Louie came to Chicago from +Oskaloosa, Iowa. There was no hay in his hair. The comic papers have +long insisted that the country boy, on his first visit to the city, is +known by his greased boots and his high-water pants. Don't you believe +them. The small-town boy is as fastidious about the height of his heels +and the stripe of his shift and the roll of his hat-brim as are his city +brothers. He peruses the slangily worded ads of the "classy clothes" +tailors, and when scarlet cravats are worn the small-town boy is not more +than two weeks late in acquiring one that glows like a headlight. + +Louie found a rooming-house, shoved his suitcase under the bed, changed +his collar, washed his hands in the gritty water of the wash bowl, and +started out to look for a job. + +Louie was twenty-one. For the last four years he had been employed in +the best shoe store at home, and he knew shoe leather from the factory to +the ash barrel. It was almost a religion with him. + +Curiosity, which plays leads in so many life dramas, led Louie to the +rotunda of the tallest building. It was built on the hollow center plan, +with a sheer drop from the twenty-somethingth to the main floor. Louie +stationed himself in the center of the mosaic floor, took off his hat, +bent backward almost double and gazed, his mouth wide open. When he +brought his muscles slowly back into normal position he tried hard not to +look impressed. He glanced about, sheepishly, to see if any one was +laughing at him, and his eye encountered the electric-lighted glass +display case of the shoe company upstairs. The case was filled with pink +satin slippers and cunning velvet boots, and the newest thing in bronze +street shoes. Louie took the next elevator up. The shoe display had +made him feel as though some one from home had slapped him on the back. + +The God of the Jobless was with him. The boss had fired two boys the day +before. + +"Oskaloosa!" grinned the boss, derisively. "Do they wear shoes there? +What do you know about shoes, huh boy?" + +Louie told him. The boss shuffled the papers on his desk, and chewed his +cigar, and tried not to show his surprise. Louie, quite innocently, was +teaching the boss things about the shoe business. + +When Louie had finished--"Well, I try you, anyhow," the boss grunted, +grudgingly. "I give you so-and-so much." He named a wage that would +have been ridiculous if it had not been so pathetic. + +"All right, sir," answered Louie, promptly, like the boys in the Alger +series. The cost of living problem had never bothered Louie in Oskaloosa. + +The boss hid a pleased smile. + +"Miss Epstein!" he bellowed, "step this way! Miss Epstein, kindly show +this here young man so he gets a line on the stock. He is from +Oskaloosa, Ioway. Look out she don't sell you a gold brick, Louie." + +But Louie was not listening. He was gazing at the V in Sophy Epstein's +dress with all his scandalized Oskaloosa, Iowa, eyes. + +Louie was no mollycoddle. But he had been in great demand as usher at +the Young Men's Sunday Evening Club service at the Congregational church, +and in his town there had been no Sophy Epsteins in too-tight princess +dresses, cut into a careless V. But Sophy was a city product--I was +about to say pure and simple, but I will not--wise, bold, young, old, +underfed, overworked, and triumphantly pretty. + +"How-do!" cooed Sophy in her best baby tones. Louie's disapproving eyes +jumped from the objectionable V in Sophy's dress to the lure of Sophy's +face, and their expression underwent a lightning change. There was no +disapproving Sophy's face, no matter how long one had dwelt in Oskaloosa. + +"I won't bite you," said Sophy. "I'm never vicious on Tuesdays. We'll +start here with the misses' an' children's, and work over to the other +side." + +Whereupon Louie was introduced into the intricacies of the sample shoe +business. He kept his eyes resolutely away from the V, and learned many +things. He learned how shoes that look like six dollar values may be +sold for two-fifty. He looked on in wide-eyed horror while Sophy fitted +a No. 5 C shoe on a 6 B foot and assured the wearer that it looked like a +made-to-order boot. He picked up a pair of dull kid shoes and looked at +them. His leather-wise eyes saw much, and I think he would have taken +his hat off the hook, and his offended business principles out of the +shop forever if Sophy had not completed her purchase and strolled over to +him at the psychological moment. + +She smiled up at him, impudently. "Well, Pink Cheeks," she said, "how do +you like our little settlement by the lake, huh?" + +"These shoes aren't worth two-fifty," said Louie, indignation in his +voice. + +"Well, sure," replied Sophy. "I know it. What do you think this is? A +charity bazaar?" + +"But back home----" began Louie, hotly. + +"Ferget it, kid," said Sophy. "This is a big town, but it ain't got no +room for back-homers. Don't sour on one job till you've got another +nailed. You'll find yourself cuddling down on a park bench if you do. +Say, are you honestly from Oskaloosa?" + +"I certainly am," answered Louie, with pride. + +"My goodness!" ejaculated Sophy. "I never believed there was no such +place. Don't brag about it to the other fellows." + +"What time do you go out for lunch?" asked Louie. + +"What's it to you?" with the accent on the "to." + +"When I want to know a thing, I generally ask," explained Louie, gently. + +Sophy looked at him--a long, keen, knowing look. "You'll learn," she +observed, thoughtfully. + +Louie did learn. He learned so much in that first week that when Sunday +came it seemed as though aeons had passed over his head. He learned that +the crime of murder was as nothing compared to the crime of allowing a +customer to depart shoeless; he learned that the lunch hour was invented +for the purpose of making dates; that no one had ever heard of Oskaloosa, +Iowa; that seven dollars a week does not leave much margin for laundry +and general recklessness; that a madonna face above a V-cut gown is apt +to distract one's attention from shoes; that a hundred-dollar nest egg is +as effective in Chicago as a pine stick would be in propping up a stone +wall; and that all the other men clerks called Sophy "sweetheart." + +Some of his newly acquired knowledge brought pain, as knowledge is apt to +do. + +He saw that State Street was crowded with Sophys during the noon hour; +girls with lovely faces under pitifully absurd hats. Girls who aped the +fashions of the dazzling creatures they saw stepping from limousines. +Girls who starved body and soul in order to possess a set of false curls, +or a pair of black satin shoes with mother-o'-pearl buttons. Girls +whose minds were bounded on the north by the nickel theatres; on the east +by "I sez to him"; on the south by the gorgeous shop windows; and on the +west by "He sez t' me." + +Oh, I can't tell you how much Louie learned in that first week while his +eyes were getting accustomed to the shifting, jostling, pushing, +giggling, walking, talking throng. The city is justly famed as a hot +house of forced knowledge. + +One thing Louie could not learn. He could not bring himself to accept +the V in Sophy's dress. Louie's mother had been one of the old-fashioned +kind who wore a blue-and-white checked gingham apron from 6 A.M. to 2 +P.M., when she took it off to go downtown and help the ladies of the +church at the cake sale in the empty window of the gas company's office, +only to don it again when she fried the potatoes for supper. Among other +things she had taught Louie to wipe his feet before coming in, to respect +and help women, and to change his socks often. + +After a month of Chicago Louie forgot the first lesson; had more +difficulty than I can tell you in reverencing a woman who only said, "Aw, +don't get fresh now!" when the other men put their arms about her; and +adhered to the third only after a struggle, in which he had to do a small +private washing in his own wash-bowl in the evening. + +Sophy called him a stiff. His gravely courteous treatment of her made +her vaguely uncomfortable. She was past mistress in the art of parrying +insults and banter, but she had no reply ready for Louie's boyish air of +deference. It angered her for some unreasonable woman-reason. + +There came a day when the V-cut dress brought them to open battle. I +think Sophy had appeared that morning minus the chain and La Valliere. +Frail and cheap as it was, it had been the only barrier that separated +Sophy from frank shamelessness. Louie's outraged sense of propriety +asserted itself. + +"Sophy," he stammered, during a quiet half-hour, "I'll call for you and +take you to the nickel show to-night if you'll promise not to wear that +dress. What makes you wear that kind of a get-up, anyway?" + +"Dress?" queried Sophy, looking down at the shiny front breadth of her +frock. "Why? Don't you like it?" + +"Like it! No!" blurted Louie. + +"Don't yuh, rully! Deah me! Deah me! If I'd only knew that this +morning. As a gen'ral thing I wear white duck complete down t' work, but +I'm savin' my last two clean suits f'r gawlf." + +Louie ran an uncomfortable finger around the edge of his collar, but he +stood his ground. "It--it--shows your--neck so," he objected, miserably. + +Sophy opened her great eyes wide. "Well, supposin' it does?" she +inquired, coolly. "It's a perfectly good neck, ain't it?" + +Louie, his face very red, took the plunge. "I don't know. I guess so. +But, Sophy, it--looks so--so--you know what I mean. I hate to see the +way the fellows rubber at you. Why don't you wear those plain shirtwaist +things, with high collars, like my mother wears back home?" + +Sophy's teeth came together with a click. She laughed a short cruel +little laugh. "Say, Pink Cheeks, did yuh ever do a washin' from seven to +twelve, after you got home from work in the evenin'? It's great! +'Specially when you're living in a six-by-ten room with all the modern +inconveniences, includin' no water except on the third floor down. +Simple! Say, a child could work it. All you got to do, when you get +home so tired your back teeth ache, is to haul your water, an' soak your +clothes, an' then rub 'em till your hands peel, and rinse 'em, an' boil +'em, and blue 'em, an' starch 'em. See? Just like that. Nothin' to it, +kid. Nothin' to it." + +Louie had been twisting his fingers nervously. Now his hands shut +themselves into fists. He looked straight into Sophy's angry eyes. + +"I do know what it is," he said, quite simply. "There's been a lot +written and said about women's struggle with clothes. I wonder why +they've never said anything about the way a man has to fight to keep up +the thing they call appearances. God knows it's pathetic enough to think +of a girl like you bending over a tubful of clothes. But when a man has +to do it, it's a tragedy." + +"That's so," agreed Sophy. "When a girl gets shabby, and her clothes +begin t' look tacky she can take a gore or so out of her skirt where it's +the most wore, and catch it in at the bottom, and call it a hobble. An' +when her waist gets too soiled she can cover up the front of it with a +jabot, an' if her face is pretty enough she can carry it off that way. +But when a man is seedy, he's seedy. He can't sew no ruffles on his +pants." + +"I ran short last week," continued Louie. "That is, shorter than usual. +I hadn't the fifty cents to give to the woman. You ought to see her! A +little, gray-faced thing, with wisps of hair, and no chest to speak of, +and one of those mashed-looking black hats. Nobody could have the nerve +to ask her to wait for her money. So I did my own washing. I haven't +learned to wear soiled clothes yet. I laughed fit to bust while I was +doing it. But--I'll bet my mother dreamed of me that night. The way +they do, you know, when something's gone wrong." + +Sophy, perched on the third rung of the sliding ladder, was gazing at +him. Her lips were parted slightly, and her cheeks were very pink. On +her face was a new, strange look, as of something half forgotten. It was +as though the spirit of Sophy-as-she-might-have-been were inhabiting her +soul for a brief moment. At Louie's next words the look was gone. + +"Can't you sew something--a lace yoke--or whatever you call 'em--in that +dress?" he persisted. + +"Aw, fade!" jeered Sophy. "When a girl's only got one dress it's got to +have some tong to it. Maybe this gown would cause a wave of indignation +in Oskaloosa, Iowa, but it don't even make a ripple on State Street. It +takes more than an aggravated Dutch neck to make a fellow look at a girl +these days. In a town like this a girl's got to make a showin' some way. +I'm my own stage manager. They look at my dress first, an' grin. See? +An' then they look at my face. I'm like the girl in the story. Muh face +is muh fortune. It's earned me many a square meal; an' lemme tell you, +Pink Cheeks, eatin' square meals is one of my favorite pastimes." + +"Say looka here!" bellowed the boss, wrathfully. "Just cut out this here +Romeo and Juliet act, will you! That there ladder ain't for no balcony +scene, understand. Here you, Louie, you shinny up there and get down a +pair of them brown satin pumps, small size." + +Sophy continued to wear the black dress. The V-cut neck seemed more +flaunting than ever. + +It was two weeks later that Louie came in from lunch, his face radiant. +He was fifteen minutes late, but he listened to the boss's ravings with a +smile. + +"You grin like somebody handed you a ten-case note," commented Sophy, +with a woman's curiosity. "I guess you must of met some rube from home +when you was out t' lunch." + +"Better than that! Who do you think I bumped right into in the elevator +going down?" + +"Well, Brothah Bones," mimicked Sophy, "who did you meet in the elevator +going down?" + +"I met a man named Ames. He used to travel for a big Boston shoe house, +and he made our town every few months. We got to be good friends. I +took him home for Sunday dinner once, and he said it was the best dinner +he'd had in months. You know how tired those traveling men get of hotel +grub." + +"Cut out the description and get down to action," snapped Sophy. + +"Well, he knew me right away. And he made me go out to lunch with him. +A real lunch, starting with soup. Gee! It went big. He asked me what I +was doing. I told him I was working here, and he opened his eyes, and +then he laughed and said: 'How did you get into that joint?' Then he +took me down to a swell little shoe shop on State Street, and it turned +out that he owns it. He introduced me all around, and I'm going there to +work next week. And wages! Why say, it's almost a salary. A fellow can +hold his head up in a place like that." + +"When you leavin'?" asked Sophy, slowly. + +"Monday. Gee! it seems a year away." + +Sophy was late Saturday morning. When she came in, hurriedly, her cheeks +were scarlet and her eyes glowed. She took off her hat and coat and fell +to straightening boxes and putting out stock without looking up. She +took no part in the talk and jest that was going on among the other +clerks. One of the men, in search of the missing mate to the shoe in his +hand, came over to her, greeting her carelessly. Then he stared. + +"Well, what do you know about this!" he called out to the others, and +laughed coarsely, "Look, stop, listen! Little Sophy Bright Eyes here has +pulled down the shades." + +Louie turned quickly. The immodest V of Sophy's gown was filled with a +black lace yoke that came up to the very lobes of her little pink ears. +She had got some scraps of lace from--Where do they get those bits of +rusty black? From some basement bargain counter, perhaps, raked over +during the lunch hour. There were nine pieces in the front, and seven in +the back. She had sat up half the night putting them together so that +when completed they looked like one, if you didn't come too close. There +is a certain strain of Indian patience and ingenuity in women that no man +has ever been able to understand. + +Louie looked up and saw. His eyes met Sophy's. In his there crept a +certain exultant gleam, as of one who had fought for something great and +won. Sophy saw the look. The shy questioning in her eyes was replaced +by a spark of defiance. She tossed her head, and turned to the man who +had called attention to her costume. + +"Who's loony now?" she jeered. "I always put in a yoke when it gets +along toward fall. My lungs is delicate. And anyway, I see by the +papers yesterday that collarless gowns is slightly passay f'r winter." + + + + +IV + +A BUSH LEAGUE HERO + +This is not a baseball story. The grandstand does not rise as one man +and shout itself hoarse with joy. There isn't a three-bagger in the +entire three thousand words, and nobody is carried home on the shoulders +of the crowd. For that sort of thing you need not squander fifteen cents +on your favorite magazine. The modest sum of one cent will make you the +possessor of a Pink 'Un. There you will find the season's games handled +in masterly fashion by a six-best-seller artist, an expert mathematician, +and an original-slang humorist. No mere short story dub may hope to +compete with these. + +In the old days, before the gentry of the ring had learned the wisdom of +investing their winnings in solids instead of liquids, this used to be a +favorite conundrum: When is a prize-fighter not a prize-fighter? + +Chorus: When he is tending bar. + +I rise to ask you Brothah Fan, when is a ball player not a ball player? +Above the storm of facetious replies I shout the answer: + +When he's a shoe clerk. + +Any man who can look handsome in a dirty baseball suit is an Adonis. +There is something about the baggy pants, and the Micawber-shaped collar, +and the skull-fitting cap, and the foot or so of tan, or blue, or pink +undershirt sleeve sticking out at the arms, that just naturally kills a +man's best points. Then too, a baseball suit requires so much in the +matter of leg. Therefore, when I say that Rudie Schlachweiler was a +dream even in his baseball uniform, with a dirty brown streak right up +the side of his pants where he had slid for base, you may know that the +girls camped on the grounds during the season. + +During the summer months our ball park is to us what the Grand Prix is to +Paris, or Ascot is to London. What care we that Evers gets seven +thousand a year (or is it a month?); or that Chicago's new South-side +ball park seats thirty-five thousand (or is it million?). Of what +interest are such meager items compared with the knowledge that "Pug" +Coulan, who plays short, goes with Undine Meyers, the girl up there in +the eighth row, with the pink dress and the red roses on her hat? When +"Pug" snatches a high one out of the firmament we yell with delight, and +even as we yell we turn sideways to look up and see how Undine is taking +it. Undine's shining eyes are fixed on "Pug," and he knows it, stoops to +brush the dust off his dirt-begrimed baseball pants, takes an attitude of +careless grace and misses the next play. + +Our grand-stand seats almost two thousand, counting the boxes. But only +the snobs, and the girls with new hats, sit in the boxes. Box seats are +comfortable, it is true, and they cost only an additional ten cents, but +we have come to consider them undemocratic, and unworthy of true fans. +Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne, who spends her winters in Egypt and her summers at +the ball park, comes out to the game every afternoon in her automobile, +but she never occupies a box seat; so why should we? She perches up in +the grand-stand with the rest of the enthusiasts, and when Kelly puts one +over she stands up and clinches her fists, and waves her arms and shouts +with the best of 'em. She has even been known to cry, "Good eye! Good +eye!" when things were at fever heat. The only really blase individual +in the ball park is Willie Grimes, who peddles ice-cream cones. For that +matter, I once saw Willie turn a languid head to pipe, in his thin voice, +"Give 'em a dark one, Dutch! Give 'em a dark one!" + +Well, that will do for the firsh dash of local color. Now for the story. + +Ivy Keller came home June nineteenth from Miss Shont's select school for +young ladies. By June twenty-first she was bored limp. You could hardly +see the plaits of her white tailored shirtwaist for fraternity pins and +secret society emblems, and her bedroom was ablaze with college banners +and pennants to such an extent that the maid gave notice every +Thursday--which was upstairs cleaning day. + +For two weeks after her return Ivy spent most of her time writing letters +and waiting for them, and reading the classics on the front porch, +dressed in a middy blouse and a blue skirt, with her hair done in a curly +Greek effect like the girls on the covers of the Ladies' Magazine. She +posed against the canvas bosom of the porch chair with one foot under +her, the other swinging free, showing a tempting thing in beaded slipper, +silk stocking, and what the story writers call "slim ankle." + +On the second Saturday after her return her father came home for dinner +at noon, found her deep in Volume Two of "Les Miserables." + +"Whew! This is a scorcher!" he exclaimed, and dropped down on a wicker +chair next to Ivy. Ivy looked at her father with languid interest, and +smiled a daughterly smile. Ivy's father was an insurance man, alderman +of his ward, president of the Civic Improvement club, member of five +lodges, and an habitual delegate. It generally was he who introduced +distinguished guests who spoke at the opera house on Decoration Day. He +called Mrs. Keller "Mother," and he wasn't above noticing the fit of a +gown on a pretty feminine figure. He thought Ivy was an expurgated +edition of Lillian Russell, Madame De Stael, and Mrs. Pankburst. + +"Aren't you feeling well, Ivy?" he asked. "Looking a little pale. It's +the heat, I suppose. Gosh! Something smells good. Run in and tell +Mother I'm here." + +Ivy kept one slender finger between the leaves of her book. "I'm +perfectly well," she replied. "That must be beefsteak and onions. Ugh!" +And she shuddered, and went indoors. + +Dad Keller looked after her thoughtfully. Then he went in, washed his +hands, and sat down at table with Ivy and her mother. + +"Just a sliver for me," said Ivy, "and no onions." + +Her father put down his knife and fork, cleared his throat, and spake, +thus: + +"You get on your hat and meet me at the 2:45 inter-urban. You're going +to the ball game with me." + +"Ball game!" repeated Ivy. "I? But I'd----" + +"Yes, you do," interrupted her father. "You've been moping around here +looking a cross between Saint Cecilia and Little Eva long enough. I +don't care if you don't know a spitball from a fadeaway when you see it. +You'll be out in the air all afternoon, and there'll be some excitement. +All the girls go. You'll like it. They're playing Marshalltown." + +Ivy went, looking the sacrificial lamb. Five minutes after the game was +called she pointed one tapering white finger in the direction of the +pitcher's mound. + +"Who's that?" she asked. + +"Pitcher," explained Papa Keller, laconically. Then, patiently: "He +throws the ball." + +"Oh," said Ivy. "What did you say his name was?" + +"I didn't say. But it's Rudie Schlachweiler. The boys call him Dutch. +Kind of a pet, Dutch is." + +"Rudie Schlachweiler!" murmured Ivy, dreamily. "What a strong name!" + +"Want some peanuts?" inquired her father. + +"Does one eat peanuts at a ball game?" + +"It ain't hardly legal if you don't," Pa Keller assured her. + +"Two sacks," said Ivy. "Papa, why do they call it a diamond, and what +are those brown bags at the corners, and what does it count if you hit +the ball, and why do they rub their hands in the dust and then--er--spit +on them, and what salary does a pitcher get, and why does the red-haired +man on the other side dance around like that between the second and third +brown bag, and doesn't a pitcher do anything but pitch, and wh----?" + +"You're on," said papa. + +After that Ivy didn't miss a game during all the time that the team +played in the home town. She went without a new hat, and didn't care +whether Jean Valjean got away with the goods or not, and forgot whether +you played third hand high or low in bridge. She even became chummy with +Undine Meyers, who wasn't her kind of a girl at all. Undine was thin in +a voluptuous kind of way, if such a paradox can be, and she had red lips, +and a roving eye, and she ran around downtown without a hat more than was +strictly necessary. But Undine and Ivy had two subjects in common. They +were baseball and love. It is queer how the limelight will make heroes +of us all. + +Now "Pug" Coulan, who was red-haired, and had shoulders like an ox, and +arms that hung down to his knees, like those of an orang-outang, +slaughtered beeves at the Chicago stockyards in winter. In the summer he +slaughtered hearts. He wore mustard colored shirts that matched his +hair, and his baseball stockings generally had a rip in them somewhere, +but when he was on the diamond we were almost ashamed to look at Undine, +so wholly did her heart shine in her eyes. + +Now, we'll have just another dash or two of local color. In a small town +the chances for hero worship are few. If it weren't for the traveling +men our girls wouldn't know whether stripes or checks were the thing in +gents' suitings. When the baseball season opened the girls swarmed on +it. Those that didn't understand baseball pretended they did. When the +team was out of town our form of greeting was changed from, +"Good-morning!" or "Howdy-do!" to "What's the score?" Every night the +results of the games throughout the league were posted up on the +blackboard in front of Schlager's hardware store, and to see the way in +which the crowd stood around it, and streamed across the street toward +it, you'd have thought they were giving away gas stoves and hammock +couches. + +Going home in the street car after the game the girls used to gaze +adoringly at the dirty faces of their sweat-begrimed heroes, and then +they'd rush home, have supper, change their dresses, do their hair, and +rush downtown past the Parker Hotel to mail their letters. The baseball +boys boarded over at the Griggs House, which is third-class, but they +used their tooth-picks, and held the postmortem of the day's game out in +front of the Parker Hotel, which is our leading hostelry. The postoffice +receipts record for our town was broken during the months of June, July, +and August. + +Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne started the trouble by having the team over to +dinner, "Pug" Coulan and all. After all, why not? No foreign and +impecunious princes penetrate as far inland as our town. They get only +as far as New York, or Newport, where they are gobbled up by many-moneyed +matrons. If Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne found the supply of available lions +limited, why should she not try to content herself with a jackal or so? + +Ivy was asked. Until then she had contented herself with gazing at her +hero. She had become such a hardened baseball fan that she followed the +game with a score card, accurately jotting down every play, and keeping +her watch open on her knee. + +She sat next to Rudie at dinner. Before she had nibbled her second +salted almond, Ivy Keller and Rudie Schlachweiler understood each other. +Rudie illustrated certain plays by drawing lines on the table-cloth with +his knife and Ivy gazed, wide-eyed, and allowed her soup to grow cold. + +The first night that Rudie called, Pa Keller thought it a great joke. He +sat out on the porch with Rudie and Ivy and talked baseball, and got up +to show Rudie how he could have got the goat of that Keokuk catcher if +only he had tried one of his famous open-faced throws. Rudie looked +politely interested, and laughed in all the right places. But Ivy didn't +need to pretend. Rudie Schlachweiler spelled baseball to her. She did +not think of her caller as a good-looking young man in a blue serge suit +and a white shirtwaist. Even as he sat there she saw him as a blonde god +standing on the pitcher's mound, with the scars of battle on his baseball +pants, his left foot placed in front of him at right angles with his +right foot, his gaze fixed on first base in a cunning effort to deceive +the man at bat, in that favorite attitude of pitchers just before they +get ready to swing their left leg and h'ist one over. + +The second time that Rudie called, Ma Keller said: + +"Ivy, I don't like that ball player coming here to see you. The +neighbors'll talk." + +The third time Rudie called, Pa Keller said: "What's that guy doing here +again?" + +The fourth time Rudie called, Pa Keller and Ma Keller said, in unison: +"This thing has got to stop." + +But it didn't. It had had too good a start. For the rest of the season +Ivy met her knight of the sphere around the corner. Theirs was a walking +courtship. They used to roam up as far as the State road, and down as +far as the river, and Rudie would fain have talked of love, but Ivy +talked of baseball. + +"Darling," Rudie would murmur, pressing Ivy's arm closer, "when did you +first begin to care?" + +"Why I liked the very first game I saw when Dad----" + +"I mean, when did you first begin to care for me?" + +"Oh! When you put three men out in that game with Marshalltown when the +teams were tied in the eighth inning. Remember? Say, Rudie dear, what +was the matter with your arm to-day? You let three men walk, and Albia's +weakest hitter got a home run out of you." + +"Oh, forget baseball for a minute, Ivy! Let's talk about something else. +Let's talk about--us." + +"Us? Well, you're baseball, aren't you?" retorted Ivy. "And if you are, +I am. Did you notice the way that Ottumwa man pitched yesterday? He +didn't do any acting for the grandstand. He didn't reach up above his +head, and wrap his right shoulder with his left toe, and swing his arm +three times and then throw seven inches outside the plate. He just took +the ball in his hand, looked at it curiously for a moment, and fired +it--zing!--like that, over the plate. I'd get that ball if I were you." + +"Isn't this a grand night?" murmured Rudie. + +"But they didn't have a hitter in the bunch," went on Ivy. "And not a +man in the team could run. That's why they're tail-enders. Just the +same, that man on the mound was a wizard, and if he had one decent player +to give him some support----" + +Well, the thing came to a climax. One evening, two weeks before the +close of the season, Ivy put on her hat and announced that she was going +downtown to mail her letters. + +"Mail your letters in the daytime," growled Papa Keller. + +"I didn't have time to-day," answered Ivy. "It was a thirteen inning +game, and it lasted until six o'clock." + +It was then that Papa Keller banged the heavy fist of decision down on +the library table. + +"This thing's got to stop!" he thundered. "I won't have any girl of mine +running the streets with a ball player, understand? Now you quit seeing +this seventy-five-dollars-a-month bush leaguer or leave this house. I +mean it." + +"All right," said Ivy, with a white-hot calm. "I'll leave. I can make +the grandest kind of angel-food with marshmallow icing, and you know +yourself my fudges can't be equaled. He'll be playing in the major +leagues in three years. Why just yesterday there was a strange man at +the game--a city man, you could tell by his hat-band, and the way his +clothes were cut. He stayed through the whole game, and never took his +eyes off Rudie. I just know he was a scout for the Cubs." + +"Probably a hardware drummer, or a fellow that Schlachweiler owes money +to." + +Ivy began to pin on her hat. A scared look leaped into Papa Keller's +eyes. He looked a little old, too, and drawn, at that minute. He +stretched forth a rather tremulous hand. + +"Ivy-girl," he said. + +"What?" snapped Ivy. + +"Your old father's just talking for your own good. You're breaking your +ma's heart. You and me have been good pals, haven't we?" + +"Yes," said Ivy, grudgingly, and without looking up. + +"Well now, look here. I've got a proposition to make to you. The +season's over in two more weeks. The last week they play out of town. +Then the boys'll come back for a week or so, just to hang around town and +try to get used to the idea of leaving us. Then they'll scatter to take +up their winter jobs-cutting ice, most of 'em," he added, grimly. + +"Mr. Schlachweiler is employed in a large establishment in Slatersville, +Ohio," said Ivy, with dignity. "He regards baseball as his profession, +and he cannot do anything that would affect his pitching arm." + +Pa Keller put on the tremolo stop and brought a misty look into his eyes. + +"Ivy, you'll do one last thing for your old father, won't you?" + +"Maybe," answered Ivy, coolly. + +"Don't make that fellow any promises. Now wait a minute! Let me get +through. I won't put any crimp in your plans. I won't speak to +Schlachweiler. Promise you won't do anything rash until the ball +season's over. Then we'll wait just one month, see? Till along about +November. Then if you feel like you want to see him----" + +"But how----" + +"Hold on. You mustn't write to him, or see him, or let him write to you +during that time, see? Then, if you feel the way you do now, I'll take +you to Slatersville to see him. Now that's fair, ain't it? Only don't +let him know you're coming." + +"M-m-m-yes," said Ivy. + +"Shake hands on it." She did. Then she left the room with a rush, +headed in the direction of her own bedroom. Pa Keller treated himself to +a prodigious wink and went out to the vegetable garden in search of +Mother. + +The team went out on the road, lost five games, won two, and came home in +fourth place. For a week they lounged around the Parker Hotel and held +up the street corners downtown, took many farewell drinks, then, slowly, +by ones and twos, they left for the packing houses, freight depots, and +gents' furnishing stores from whence they came. + +October came in with a blaze of sumac and oak leaves. Ivy stayed home and +learned to make veal loaf and apple pies. The worry lines around Pa +Keller's face began to deepen. Ivy said that she didn't believe that she +cared to go back to Miss Shont's select school for young ladies. + +October thirty-first came. + +"We'll take the eight-fifteen to-morrow," said her father to Ivy. + +"All right," said Ivy. + +"Do you know where he works?" asked he. + +"No," answered Ivy. + +"That'll be all right. I took the trouble to look him up last August." + +The short November afternoon was drawing to its close (as our best talent +would put it) when Ivy and her father walked along the streets of +Slatersville. (I can't tell you what streets, because I don't know.) Pa +Keller brought up before a narrow little shoe shop. + +"Here we are," he said, and ushered Ivy in. A short, stout, proprietary +figure approached them smiling a mercantile smile. + +"What can I do for you?" he inquired. + +Ivy's eyes searched the shop for a tall, golden-haired form in a soiled +baseball suit. + +"We'd like to see a gentleman named Schlachweiler--Rudolph +Schlachweiler," said Pa Keller. + +"Anything very special?" inquired the proprietor. "He's--rather busy +just now. Wouldn't anybody else do? Of course, if----" + +"No," growled Keller. + +The boss turned. "Hi! Schlachweiler!" he bawled toward the rear of the +dim little shop. + +"Yessir," answered a muffled voice. + +"Front!" yelled the boss, and withdrew to a safe listening distance. + +A vaguely troubled look lurked in the depths of Ivy's eyes. From behind +the partition of the rear of the shop emerged a tall figure. It was none +other than our hero. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he struggled into +his coat as he came forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, +hurriedly, and swallowing. + +I have said that the shop was dim. Ivy and her father stood at one side, +their backs to the light. Rudie came forward, rubbing his hands together +in the manner of clerks. + +"Something in shoes?" he politely inquired. Then he saw. + +"Ivy!--ah--Miss Keller!" he exclaimed. Then, awkwardly: "Well, how-do, +Mr. Keller. I certainly am glad to see you both. How's the old town? +What are you doing in Slatersville?" + +"Why--Ivy----" began Pa Keller, blunderingly. + +But Ivy clutched his arm with a warning hand. The vaguely troubled look +in her eyes had become wildly so. + +"Schlachweiler!" shouted the voice of the boss. "Customers!" and he +waved a hand in the direction of the fitting benches. + +"All right, sir," answered Rudie. "Just a minute." + +"Dad had to come on business," said Ivy, hurriedly. "And he brought me +with him. I'm--I'm on my way to school in Cleveland, you know. Awfully +glad to have seen you again. We must go. That lady wants her shoes, I'm +sure, and your employer is glaring at us. Come, dad." + +At the door she turned just in time to see Rudie removing the shoe from +the pudgy foot of the fat lady customer. + + +We'll take a jump of six months. That brings us into the lap of April. + +Pa Keller looked up from his evening paper. Ivy, home for the Easter +vacation, was at the piano. Ma Keller was sewing. + +Pa Keller cleared his throat. "I see by the paper," he announced, "that +Schlachweiler's been sold to Des Moines. Too bad we lost him. He was a +great little pitcher, but he played in bad luck. Whenever he was on the +slab the boys seemed to give him poor support." + +"Fudge!" exclaimed Ivy, continuing to play, but turning a spirited face +toward her father. "What piffle! Whenever a player pitches rotten ball +you'll always hear him howling about the support he didn't get. +Schlachweiler was a bum pitcher. Anybody could hit him with a willow +wand, on a windy day, with the sun in his eyes." + + + + +V + +THE KITCHEN SIDE OF THE DOOR + +The City was celebrating New Year's Eve. Spelled thus, with a capital C, +know it can mean but New York. In the Pink Fountain room of the Newest +Hotel all those grand old forms and customs handed down to us for the +occasion were being rigidly observed in all their original quaintness. +The Van Dyked man who looked like a Russian Grand Duke (he really was a +chiropodist) had drunk champagne out of the pink satin slipper of the +lady who behaved like an actress (she was forelady at Schmaus' Wholesale +Millinery, eighth floor). The two respectable married ladies there in +the corner had been kissed by each other's husbands. The slim, +Puritan-faced woman in white, with her black hair so demurely parted and +coiled in a sleek knot, had risen suddenly from her place and walked +indolently to the edge of the plashing pink fountain in the center of the +room, had stood contemplating its shallows with a dreamy half-smile on +her lips, and then had lifted her slim legs slowly and gracefully over +its fern-fringed basin and had waded into its chilling midst, trailing +her exquisite white satin and chiffon draperies after her, and scaring +the goldfish into fits. The loudest scream of approbation had come from +the yellow-haired, loose-lipped youth who had made the wager, and lost +it. The heavy blonde in the inevitable violet draperies showed signs of +wanting to dance on the table. Her companion--a structure made up of +layer upon layer, and fold upon fold of flabby tissue--knew all the +waiters by their right names, and insisted on singing with the orchestra +and beating time with a rye roll. The clatter of dishes was giving way +to the clink of glasses. + +In the big, bright kitchen back, of the Pink Fountain room Miss Gussie +Fink sat at her desk, calm, watchful, insolent-eyed, a goddess sitting in +judgment. On the pay roll of the Newest Hotel Miss Gussie Fink's name +appeared as kitchen checker, but her regular job was goddessing. Her +altar was a high desk in a corner of the busy kitchen, and it was an +altar of incense, of burnt-offerings, and of showbread. Inexorable as a +goddess of the ancients was Miss Fink, and ten times as difficult to +appease. For this is the rule of the Newest Hotel, that no waiter may +carry his laden tray restaurantward until its contents have been viewed +and duly checked by the eye and hand of Miss Gussie Fink, or her +assistants. Flat upon the table must go every tray, off must go each +silver dish-cover, lifted must be each napkin to disclose its treasure of +steaming corn or hot rolls. Clouds of incense rose before Miss Gussie +Fink and she sniffed it unmoved, her eyes, beneath level brows, regarding +savory broiler or cunning ice with equal indifference, appraising alike +lobster cocktail or onion soup, traveling from blue points to brie. +Things a la and things glace were all one to her. Gazing at food was +Miss Gussie Fink's occupation, and just to see the way she regarded a +boneless squab made you certain that she never ate. + +In spite of the I-don't-know-how-many (see ads) New Year's Eve diners for +whom food was provided that night, the big, busy kitchen was the most +orderly, shining, spotless place imaginable. But Miss Gussie Fink was +the neatest, most immaculate object in all that great, clean room. There +was that about her which suggested daisies in a field, if you know what I +mean. This may have been due to the fact that her eyes were brown while +her hair was gold, or it may have been something about the way her +collars fitted high, and tight, and smooth, or the way her close white +sleeves came down to meet her pretty hands, or the way her shining hair +sprang from her forehead. Also the smooth creaminess of her clear skin +may have had something to do with it. But privately, I think it was due +to the way she wore her shirtwaists. Miss Gussie Fink could wear a +starched white shirtwaist under a close-fitting winter coat, remove the +coat, run her right forefinger along her collar's edge and her left thumb +along the back of her belt and disclose to the admiring world a blouse as +unwrinkled and unsullied as though it had just come from her own skilful +hands at the ironing board. Miss Gussie Fink was so innately, +flagrantly, beautifully clean-looking that--well, there must be a stop to +this description. + +She was the kind of girl you'd like to see behind the counter of your +favorite delicatessen, knowing that you need not shudder as her fingers +touch your Sunday night supper slices of tongue, and Swiss cheese, and +ham. No girl had ever dreamed of refusing to allow Gussie to borrow her +chamois for a second. + +To-night Miss Fink had come on at 10 P.M., which was just two hours later +than usual. She knew that she was to work until 6 A.M., which may have +accounted for the fact that she displayed very little of what the fans +call ginger as she removed her hat and coat and hung them on the hook +behind the desk. The prospect of that all-night, eight-hour stretch may +have accounted for it, I say. But privately, and entre nous, it didn't. +For here you must know of Heiny. Heiny, alas! now Henri. + +Until two weeks ago Henri had been Heiny and Miss Fink had been Kid. +When Henri had been Heiny he had worked in the kitchen at many things, +but always with a loving eye on Miss Gussie Fink. Then one wild night +there had been a waiters' strike--wages or hours or tips or all three. +In the confusion that followed Heiny had been pressed into service and a +chopped coat. He had fitted into both with unbelievable nicety, proving +that waiters are born, not made. Those little tricks and foibles that +are characteristic of the genus waiter seemed to envelop him as though a +fairy garment had fallen upon his shoulders. The folded napkin under his +left arm seemed to have been placed there by nature, so perfectly did it +fit into place. The ghostly tread, the little whisking skip, the +half-simper, the deferential bend that had in it at the same time +something of insolence, all were there; the very "Yes, miss," and "Very +good, sir," rose automatically and correctly to his untrained lips. +Cinderella rising resplendent from her ash-strewn hearth was not more +completely transformed than Heiny in his role of Henri. And with the +transformation Miss Gussie Fink had been left behind her desk +disconsolate. + +Kitchens are as quick to seize upon these things and gossip about them as +drawing rooms are. And because Miss Gussie Fink had always worn a little +air of aloofness to all except Heiny, the kitchen was the more eager to +make the most of its morsel. Each turned it over under his tongue--Tony, +the Crook, whom Miss Fink had scorned; Francois, the entree cook, who +often forgot he was married; Miss Sweeney, the bar-checker, who was +jealous of Miss Fink's complexion. Miss Fink heard, and said nothing. +She only knew that there would be no dear figure waiting for her when the +night's work was done. For two weeks now she had put on her hat and coat +and gone her way at one o'clock alone. She discovered that to be taken +home night after night under Heiny's tender escort had taught her a +ridiculous terror of the streets at night now that she was without +protection. Always the short walk from the car to the flat where Miss +Fink lived with her mother had been a glorious, star-lit, all too brief +moment. Now it was an endless and terrifying trial, a thing of shivers +and dread, fraught with horror of passing the alley just back of +Cassidey's buffet. There had even been certain little half-serious, +half-jesting talks about the future into which there had entered the +subject of a little delicatessen and restaurant in a desirable +neighborhood, with Heiny in the kitchen, and a certain blonde, neat, +white-shirtwaisted person in charge of the desk and front shop. + +She and her mother had always gone through a little formula upon Miss +Fink's return from work. They never used it now. Gussie's mother was a +real mother--the kind that wakes up when you come home. + +"That you, Gussie?" Ma Fink would call from the bedroom, at the sound of +the key in the lock. + +"It's me, ma." + +"Heiny bring you home?" + +"Sure," happily. + +"There's a bit of sausage left, and some pie if----" + +"Oh, I ain't hungry. We stopped at Joey's downtown and had a cup of +coffee and a ham on rye. Did you remember to put out the milk bottle?" + +For two weeks there had been none of that. Gussie had learned to creep +silently into bed, and her mother, being a mother, feigned sleep. + +To-night at her desk Miss Gussie Fink seemed a shade cooler, more +self-contained, and daisylike than ever. From somewhere at the back of +her head she could see that Heiny was avoiding her desk and was using the +services of the checker at the other end of the room. And even as the +poison of this was eating into her heart she was tapping her forefinger +imperatively on the desk before her and saying to Tony, the Crook: + +"Down on the table with that tray, Tony--flat. This may be a busy little +New Year's Eve, but you can't come any of your sleight-of-hand stuff on +me." For Tony had a little trick of concealing a dollar-and-a-quarter +sirloin by the simple method of slapping the platter close to the +underside of his tray and holding it there with long, lean fingers +outspread, the entire bit of knavery being concealed in the folds of a +flowing white napkin in the hand that balanced the tray. Into Tony's +eyes there came a baleful gleam. His lean jaw jutted out threateningly. + +"You're the real Weissenheimer kid, ain't you?" he sneered. "Never mind. +I'll get you at recess." + +"Some day," drawled Miss Fink, checking the steak, "the house'll get wise +to your stuff and then you'll have to go back to the coal wagon. I know +so much about you it's beginning to make me uncomfortable. I hate to +carry around a burden of crime." + +"You're a sorehead because Heiny turned you down and now----" + +"Move on there!" snapped Miss Fink, "or I'll call the steward to settle +you. Maybe he'd be interested to know that you've been counting in the +date and your waiter's number, and adding 'em in at the bottom of your +check." + +Tony, the Crook, turned and skimmed away toward the dining-room, but the +taste of victory was bitter in Miss Fink's mouth. + +Midnight struck. There came from the direction of the Pink Fountain Room +a clamor and din which penetrated the thickness of the padded doors that +separated the dining-room from the kitchen beyond. The sound rose and +swelled above the blare of the orchestra. Chairs scraped on the marble +floor as hundreds rose to their feet. The sound of clinking glasses +became as the jangling of a hundred bells. There came the sharp spat of +hand-clapping, then cheers, yells, huzzas. Through the swinging doors at +the end of the long passageway Miss Fink could catch glimpses of dazzling +color, of shimmering gowns, of bare arms uplifted, of flowers, and +plumes, and jewels, with the rosy light of the famed pink fountain +casting a gracious glow over all. Once she saw a tall young fellow throw +his arm about the shoulder of a glorious creature at the next table, and +though the door swung shut before she could see it, Miss Fink knew that +he had kissed her. + +There were no New Year's greetings in the kitchen back of the Pink +Fountain Room. It was the busiest moment in all that busy night. The +heat of the ovens was so intense that it could be felt as far as Miss +Fink's remote corner. The swinging doors between dining-room and kitchen +were never still. A steady stream of waiters made for the steam tables +before which the white-clad chefs stood ladling, carving, basting, +serving, gave their orders, received them, stopped at the checking-desk, +and sped dining-roomward again. Tony, the Crook, was cursing at one of +the little Polish vegetable girls who had not been quick enough about the +garnishing of a salad, and she was saying, over and over again, in her +thick tongue: + +"Aw, shod op yur mout'!" + +The thud-thud of Miss Fink's checking-stamp kept time to flying +footsteps, but even as her practised eye swept over the tray before her +she saw the steward direct Henri toward her desk, just as he was about to +head in the direction of the minor checking-desk. Beneath downcast lids +she saw him coming. There was about Henri to-night a certain radiance, a +sort of electrical elasticity, so nimble, so tireless, so exuberant was +he. In the eyes of Miss Gussie Fink he looked heartbreakingly handsome +in his waiter's uniform--handsome, distinguished, remote, and infinitely +desirable. And just behind him, revenge in his eye, came Tony. + +The flat surface of the desk received Henri's tray. Miss Fink regarded +it with a cold and business-like stare. Henri whipped his napkin from +under his left arm and began to remove covers, dexterously. Off came the +first silver, dome-shaped top. + +"Guinea hen," said Henri. + +"I seen her lookin' at you when you served the little necks," came from +Tony, as though continuing a conversation begun in some past moment of +pause, "and she's some lovely doll, believe me." + +Miss Fink scanned the guinea hen thoroughly, but with a detached air, and +selected the proper stamp from the box at her elbow. Thump! On the +broad pasteboard sheet before her appeared the figures $1.75 after +Henri's number. + +"Think so?" grinned Henri, and removed another cover. "One candied +sweets." + +"I bet some day we'll see you in the Sunday papers, Heiny," went on Tony, +"with a piece about handsome waiter runnin' away with beautiful s'ciety +girl. Say; you're too perfect even for a waiter." + +Thump! Thirty cents. + +"Quit your kiddin'," said the flattered Henri. "One endive, French +dressing." + +Thump! "Next!" said Miss Fink, dispassionately, yawned, and smiled +fleetingly at the entree cook who wasn't looking her way. Then, as Tony +slid his tray toward her: "How's business, Tony? H'm? How many two-bit +cigar bands have you slipped onto your own private collection of nickel +straights and made a twenty-cent rake-off?" + +But there was a mist in the bright brown eyes as Tony the Crook turned +away with his tray. In spite of the satisfaction of having had the last +word, Miss Fink knew in her heart that Tony had "got her at recess," as +he had said he would. + +Things were slowing up for Miss Fink. The stream of hurrying waiters was +turned in the direction of the kitchen bar now. From now on the eating +would be light, and the drinking heavy. Miss Fink, with time hanging +heavy, found herself blinking down at the figures stamped on the +pasteboard sheet before her, and in spite of the blinking, two marks that +never were intended for a checker's report splashed down just over the +$1.75 after Henri's number. A lovely doll! And she had gazed at Heiny. +Well, that was to be expected. No woman could gaze unmoved upon Heiny. +"A lovely doll--" + +"Hi, Miss Fink!" it was the steward's voice. "We need you over in the +bar to help Miss Sweeney check the drinks. They're coming too swift for +her. The eating will be light from now on; just a little something salty +now and then." + +So Miss Fink dabbed covertly at her eyes and betook herself out of the +atmosphere of roasting, and broiling, and frying, and stewing; away from +the sight of great copper kettles, and glowing coals and hissing pans, +into a little world fragrant with mint, breathing of orange and lemon +peel, perfumed with pineapple, redolent of cinnamon and clove, reeking +with things spirituous. Here the splutter of the broiler was replaced by +the hiss of the siphon, and the pop-pop of corks, and the tinkle and +clink of ice against glass. + +"Hello, dearie!" cooed Miss Sweeney, in greeting, staring hard at the +suspicious redness around Miss Fink's eyelids. "Ain't you sweet to come +over here in the headache department and help me out! Here's the wine +list. You'll prob'ly need it. Say, who do you suppose invented New +Year's Eve? They must of had a imagination like a Greek 'bus boy. I'm +limp as a rag now, and it's only two-thirty. I've got a regular cramp in +my wrist from checkin' quarts. Say, did you hear about Heiny's crowd?" + +"No," said Miss Fink, evenly, and began to study the first page of the +wine list under the heading "Champagnes of Noted Vintages." + +"Well," went on Miss Sweeney's little thin, malicious voice, "he's fell +in soft. There's a table of three, and they're drinkin' 1874 Imperial +Crown at twelve dollars per, like it was Waukesha ale. And every time +they finish a bottle one of the guys pays for it with a brand new ten and +a brand new five and tells Heiny to keep the change. Can you beat it?" + +"I hope," said Miss Fink, pleasantly, "that the supply of 1874 will hold +out till morning. I'd hate to see them have to come down to ten dollar +wine. Here you, Tony! Come back here! I may be a new hand in this +department but I'm not so green that you can put a gold label over on me +as a yellow label. Notice that I'm checking you another fifty cents." + +"Ain't he the grafter!" laughed Miss Sweeney. She leaned toward Miss +Fink and lowered her voice discreetly. "Though I'll say this for'm. If +you let him get away with it now an' then, he'll split even with you. +H'm? O, well, now, don't get so high and mighty. The management expects +it in this department. That's why they pay starvation wages." + +An unusual note of color crept into Miss Gussie Fink's smooth cheek. It +deepened and glowed as Heiny darted around the corner and up to the bar. +There was about him an air of suppressed excitement--suppressed, because +Heiny was too perfect a waiter to display emotion. + +"Not another!" chanted the bartenders, in chorus. + +"Yes," answered Henri, solemnly, and waited while the wine cellar was +made to relinquish another rare jewel. + +"O, you Heiny!" called Miss Sweeney, "tell us what she looks like. If I +had time I'd take a peek myself. From what Tony says she must look +something like Maxine Elliot, only brighter." + +Henri turned. He saw Miss Fink. A curious little expression came into +his eyes--a Heiny look, it might have been called, as he regarded his +erstwhile sweetheart's unruffled attire, and clear skin, and steady eye +and glossy hair. She was looking past him in that baffling, maddening +way that angry women have. Some of Henri's poise seemed to desert him in +that moment. He appeared a shade less debonair as he received the +precious bottle from the wine man's hands. He made for Miss Fink's desk +and stood watching her while she checked his order. At the door he +turned and looked over his shoulder at Miss Sweeney. + +"Some time," he said, deliberately, "when there's no ladies around, I'll +tell you what I think she looks like." + +And the little glow of color in Miss Gussic Fink's smooth cheek became a +crimson flood that swept from brow to throat. + +"Oh, well," snickered Miss Sweeney, to hide her own discomfiture, "this +is little Heiny's first New Year's Eve in the dining-room. Honest, I +b'lieve he's shocked. He don't realize that celebratin' New Year's Eve +is like eatin' oranges. You got to let go your dignity t' really enjoy +'em." + +Three times more did Henri enter and demand a bottle of the famous +vintage, and each time he seemed a shade less buoyant. His elation +diminished as his tips grew greater until, as he drew up at the bar at +six o'clock, he seemed wrapped in impenetrable gloom. + +"Them hawgs sousin' yet?" shrilled Miss Sweeney. She and Miss Fink had +climbed down from their high stools, and were preparing to leave. Henri +nodded, drearily, and disappeared in the direction of the Pink Fountain +Room. + +Miss Fink walked back to her own desk in the corner near the dining-room +door. She took her hat off the hook, and stood regarding it, +thoughtfully. Then, with a little air of decision, she turned and walked +swiftly down the passageway that separated dining-room from kitchen. +Tillie, the scrub-woman, was down on her hands and knees in one corner of +the passage. She was one of a small army of cleaners that had begun the +work of clearing away the debris of the long night's revel. Miss Fink +lifted her neat skirts high as she tip-toed through the little soapy pool +that followed in the wake of Tillie, the scrub-woman. She opened the +swinging doors a cautious little crack and peered in. What she saw was +not pretty. If the words sordid and bacchanalian had been part of Miss +Fink's vocabulary they would have risen to her lips then. The crowd had +gone. The great room contained not more than half a dozen people. +Confetti littered the floor. Here and there a napkin, crushed and +bedraggled into an unrecognizable ball, lay under a table. From an +overturned bottle the dregs were dripping drearily. The air was stale, +stifling, poisonous. + +At a little table in the center of the room Henri's three were still +drinking. They were doing it in a dreadful and businesslike way. There +were two men and one woman. The faces of all three were mahogany colored +and expressionless. There was about them an awful sort of stillness. +Something in the sight seemed to sicken Gussie Fink. It came to her that +the wintry air outdoors must be gloriously sweet, and cool, and clean in +contrast to this. She was about to turn away, with a last look at Heiny +yawning behind his hand, when suddenly the woman rose unsteadily to her +feet, balancing herself with her finger tips on the table. She raised +her head and stared across the room with dull, unseeing eyes, and licked +her lips with her tongue. Then she turned and walked half a dozen paces, +screamed once with horrible shrillness, and crashed to the floor. She +lay there in a still, crumpled heap, the folds of her exquisite gown +rippling to meet a little stale pool of wine that had splashed from some +broken glass. Then this happened. Three people ran toward the woman on +the floor, and two people ran past her and out of the room. The two who +ran away were the men with whom she had been drinking, and they were not +seen again. The three who ran toward her were Henri, the waiter, Miss +Gussie Fink, checker, and Tillie, the scrub-woman. Henri and Miss Fink +reached her first. Tillie, the scrub-woman, was a close third. Miss +Gussie Fink made as though to slip her arm under the poor bruised head, +but Henri caught her wrist fiercely (for a waiter) and pulled her to her +feet almost roughly. + +"You leave her alone, Kid," he commanded. + +Miss Gussie Fink stared, indignation choking her utterance. And as she +stared the fierce light in Henri's eyes was replaced by the light of +tenderness. + +"We'll tend to her," said Henri; "she ain't fit for you to touch. I +wouldn't let you soil your hands on such truck." And while Gussie still +stared he grasped the unconscious woman by the shoulders, while another +waiter grasped her ankles, with Tillie, the scrub-woman, arranging her +draperies pityingly around her, and together they carried her out of the +dining-room to a room beyond. + +Back in the kitchen Miss Gussie Fink was preparing to don her hat, but +she was experiencing some difficulty because of the way in which her +fingers persisted in trembling. Her face was turned away from the +swinging doors, but she knew when Henri came in. He stood just behind +her, in silence. When she turned to face him she found Henri looking at +her, and as he looked all the Heiny in him came to the surface and shone +in his eyes. He looked long and silently at Miss Gussie Fink--at the +sane, simple, wholesomeness of her, at her clear brown eyes, at her white +forehead from which the shining hair sprang away in such a delicate line, +at her immaculately white shirtwaist, and her smooth, snug-fitting collar +that came up to the lobes of her little pink ears, at her creamy skin, at +her trim belt. He looked as one who would rest his eyes--eyes weary of +gazing upon satins, and jewels, and rouge, and carmine, and white arms, +and bosoms. + +"Gee, Kid! You look good to me," he said. + +"Do I--Heiny?" whispered Miss Fink. + +"Believe me!" replied Heiny, fervently. "It was just a case of swelled +head. Forget it, will you? Say, that gang in there to-night--why, say, +that gang----" + +"I know," interrupted Miss Fink. + +"Going home?" asked Heiny. + +"Yes." + +"Suppose we have a bite of something to eat first," suggested Heiny. + +Miss Fink glanced round the great, deserted kitchen. As she gazed a +little expression of disgust wrinkled her pretty nose--the nose that +perforce had sniffed the scent of so many rare and exquisite dishes. + +"Sure," she assented, joyously, "but not here. Let's go around the +corner to Joey's. I could get real chummy with a cup of good hot coffee +and a ham on rye." + +He helped her on with her coat, and if his hands rested a moment on her +shoulders who was there to see it? A few sleepy, wan-eyed waiters and +Tillie, the scrub-woman. Together they started toward the door. Tillie, +the scrubwoman, had worked her wet way out of the passage and into the +kitchen proper. She and her pail blocked their way. She was sopping up +a soapy pool with an all-encompassing gray scrub-rag. Heiny and Gussie +stopped a moment perforce to watch her. It was rather fascinating to see +how that artful scrub-rag craftily closed in upon the soapy pool until it +engulfed it. Tillie sat back on her knees to wring out the water-soaked +rag. There was something pleasing in the sight. Tillie's blue calico +was faded white in patches and at the knees it was dark with soapy water. +Her shoes were turned up ludicrously at the toes, as scrub-women's shoes +always are. Tillie's thin hair was wadded back into a moist knob at the +back and skewered with a gray-black hairpin. From her parboiled, +shriveled fingers to her ruddy, perspiring face there was nothing of +grace or beauty about Tillie. And yet Heiny found something pleasing +there. He could not have told you why, so how can I, unless to say that +it was, perhaps, for much the same reason that we rejoice in the +wholesome, safe, reassuring feel of the gray woolen blanket on our bed +when we wake from a horrid dream. + +"A Happy New Year to you," said Heiny gravely, and took his hand out of +his pocket. + +Tillie's moist right hand closed over something. She smiled so that one +saw all her broken black teeth. + +"The same t' you," said Tillie. "The same t' you." + + + + +VI + +ONE OF THE OLD GIRLS + +All of those ladies who end their conversation with you by wearily +suggesting that you go down to the basement to find what you seek, do not +receive a meager seven dollars a week as a reward for their efforts. +Neither are they all obliged to climb five weary flights of stairs to +reach the dismal little court room which is their home, and there are +several who need not walk thirty-three blocks to save carfare, only to +spend wretched evenings washing out handkerchiefs and stockings in the +cracked little washbowl, while one ear is cocked for the stealthy tread +of the Lady Who Objects. + +The earnest compiler of working girls' budgets would pass Effie Bauer +hurriedly by. Effie's budget bulged here and there with such pathetic +items as hand-embroidered blouses, thick club steaks, and parquet tickets +for Maude Adams. That you may visualize her at once I may say that Effie +looked twenty-four--from the rear (all women do in these days of girlish +simplicity in hats and tailor-mades); her skirts never sagged, her +shirtwaists were marvels of plainness and fit, and her switch had cost +her sixteen dollars, wholesale (a lady friend in the business). Oh, +there was nothing tragic about Effie. She had a plump, assured style, a +keen blue eye, a gift of repartee, and a way of doing her hair so that +the gray at the sides scarcely showed at all. Also a knowledge of +corsets that had placed her at the buying end of that important +department at Spiegel's. Effie knew to the minute when coral beads went +out and pearl beads came in, and just by looking at her blouses you could +tell when Cluny died and Irish was born. Meeting Effie on the street, +you would have put her down as one of the many well-dressed, +prosperous-looking women shoppers--if you hadn't looked at her feet. +Veteran clerks and policemen cannot disguise their feet. + +Effie Bauer's reason for not marrying when a girl was the same as that of +most of the capable, wise-eyed, good-looking women one finds at the head +of departments. She had not had a chance. If Effie had been as +attractive at twenty as she was at--there, we won't betray confidences. +Still, it is certain that if Effie had been as attractive when a young +girl as she was when an old girl, she never would have been an old girl +and head of Spiegel's corset department at a salary of something very +comfortably over one hundred and twenty-five a month (and commissions). +Effie had improved with the years, and ripened with experience. She knew +her value. At twenty she had been pale, anaemic and bony, with a +startled-faun manner and bad teeth. Years of saleswomanship had +broadened her, mentally and physically, until she possessed a wide and +varied knowledge of that great and diversified subject known as human +nature. She knew human nature all the way from the fifty-nine-cent +girdles to the twenty-five-dollar made-to-orders. And if the years had +brought, among other things, a certain hardness about the jaw and a line +or two at the corners of the eyes, it was not surprising. You can't rub +up against the sharp edges of this world and expect to come out without a +scratch or so. + +So much for Effie. Enter the hero. Webster defines a hero in romance as +the person who has the principal share in the transactions related. He +says nothing which would debar a gentleman just because he may be a +trifle bald and in the habit of combing his hair over the thin spot, and +he raises no objections to a matter of thickness and color in the region +of the back of the neck. Therefore Gabe I. Marks qualifies. Gabe was +the gentleman about whom Effie permitted herself to be guyed. He came to +Chicago on business four times a year, and he always took Effie to the +theater, and to supper afterward. On those occasions, Effie's gown, wrap +and hat were as correct in texture, lines, and paradise aigrettes as +those of any of her non-working sisters about her. On the morning +following these excursions into Lobsterdom, Effie would confide to her +friend, Miss Weinstein, of the lingeries and negligees: + +"I was out with my friend, Mr. Marks, last evening. We went to Rector's +after the show. Oh, well, it takes a New Yorker to know how. Honestly, +I feel like a queen when I go out with him. H'm? Oh, nothing like that, +girlie. I never could see that marriage thing. Just good friends." + +Gabe had been coming to Chicago four times a year for six years. Six +times four are twenty-four. And one is twenty-five. Gabe's last visit +made the twenty-fifth. + +"Well, Effie," Gabe said when the evening's entertainment had reached the +restaurant stage, "this is our twenty-fifth anniversary. It's our silver +wedding, without the silver and the wedding. We'll have a bottle of +champagne. That makes it almost legal. And then suppose we finish up by +having the wedding. The silver can be omitted." + +Effie had been humming with the orchestra, holding a lobster claw in one +hand and wielding the little two-pronged fork with the other. She +dropped claw, fork, and popular air to stare open-mouthed at Gabe. Then +a slow, uncertain smile crept about her lips, although her eyes were +still unsmiling. + +"Stop your joking, Gabie," she said. "Some day you'll say those things +to the wrong lady, and then you'll have a breach-of-promise suit on your +hands." + +"This ain't no joke, Effie," Gabe had replied. "Not with me it ain't. As +long as my mother selig lived I wouldn't ever marry a Goy. It would have +broken her heart. I was a good son to her, and good sons make good +husbands, they say. Well, Effie, you want to try it out?" + +There was something almost solemn in Effie's tone and expression. +"Gabie," she said slowly, "you're the first man that's ever asked me to +marry him." + +"That goes double," answered Gabe. + +"Thanks," said Effie. "That makes it all the nicer." + +"Then----" Gabe's face was radiant. But Effie shook her head quickly. + +"You're just twenty years late," she said. + +"Late!" expostulated Gabe. "I ain't no dead one yet." + +Effie pushed her plate away with a little air of decision, folded her +plump arms on the table, and, leaning forward, looked Gabe I. Marks +squarely in the eyes. + +"Gabie," she said gently, "I'll bet you haven't got a hundred dollars in +the bank----" + +"But----" interrupted Gabe. + +"Wait a minute. I know you boys on the road. Besides your diamond scarf +pin and your ring and watch, have you got a cent over your salary? Nix. +You carry just about enough insurance to bury you, don't you? You're +fifty years old if you're a minute, Gabie, and if I ain't mistaken you'd +have a pretty hard time of it getting ten thousand dollars' insurance +after the doctors got through with you. Twenty-five years of pinochle +and poker and the fat of the land haven't added up any bumps in the old +stocking under the mattress." + +"Say, looka here," objected Gabe, more red-faced than usual, "I didn't +know was proposing to no Senatorial investigating committee. Say, you +talk about them foreign noblemen being mercenary! Why, they ain't in it +with you girls to-day. A feller is got to propose to you with his bank +book in one hand and a bunch of life-insurance policies in the other. +You're right; I ain't saved much. But Ma selig always had everything she +wanted. Say, when a man marries it's different. He begins to save." + +"There!" said Effie quickly. "That's just it. Twenty years ago I'd have +been glad and willing to start like that, saving and scrimping and loving +a man, and looking forward to the time when four figures showed up in the +bank account where but three bloomed before. I've got what they call the +home instinct. Give me a yard or so of cretonne, and a photo of my +married sister down in Iowa, and I can make even a boarding-house inside +bedroom look like a place where a human being could live. If I had been +as wise at twenty as I am now, Gabie, I could have married any man I +pleased. But I was what they call capable. And men aren't marrying +capable girls. They pick little yellow-headed, blue-eyed idiots that +don't know a lamb stew from a soup bone when they see it. Well, Mr. Man +didn't show up, and I started in to clerk at six per. I'm earning as +much as you are now. More. Now, don't misunderstand me, Gabe. I'm not +throwing bouquets at myself. I'm not that kind of a girl. But I could +sell a style 743 Slimshape to the Venus de Milo herself. The Lord knows +she needed one, with those hips of hers. I worked my way up, alone. I'm +used to it. I like the excitement down at the store. I'm used to +luxuries. I guess if I was a man I'd be the kind thy call a good +provider--the kind that opens wine every time there's half an excuse for +it, and when he dies his widow has to take in boarders. And, Gabe, after +you've worn tailored suits every year for a dozen years, you can't go +back to twenty-five-dollar ready-mades and be happy." + +"You could if you loved a man," said Gabe stubbornly. + +The hard lines around the jaw and the experienced lines about the eyes +seemed suddenly to stand out on Effie's face. + +"Love's young dream is all right. But you've reached the age when you +let your cigar ash dribble down onto your vest. Now me, I've got a +kimono nature but a straight-front job, and it's kept me young. Young! +I've got to be. That's my stock in trade. You see, Gabie, we're just +twenty years late, both of us. They're not going to boost your salary. +These days they're looking for kids on the road--live wires, with a lot +of nerve and a quick come-back. They don't want old-timers. Why, say, +Gabie, if I was to tell you what I spend in face powder and toilette +water and hairpins alone, you'd think I'd made a mistake and given you +the butcher bill instead. And I'm no professional beauty, either. Only +it takes money to look cleaned and pressed in this town." + +In the seclusion of the cafe corner, Gabe laid one plump, highly +manicured hand on Effie's smooth arm. "You wouldn't need to stay young +for me, Effie. I like you just as you are, with out the powder, or the +toilette water, or the hair-pins." + +His red, good-natured face had an expression upon it that was touchingly +near patient resignation as he looked up into Effie's sparkling +countenance. "You never looked so good to me as you do this minute, old +girl. And if the day comes when you get lonesome--or change your +mind--or----" + +Effie shook her head, and started to draw on her long white gloves. "I +guess I haven't refused you the way the dames in the novels do it. Maybe +it's because I've had so little practice. But I want to say this, Gabe. +Thank God I don't have to die knowing that no man ever wanted me to be +his wife. Honestly, I'm that grateful that I'd marry you in a minute if +I didn't like you so well." + +"I'll be back in three months, like always," was all that Gabe said. "I +ain't going to write. When I get here we'll just take in a show, and the +younger you look the better I'll like it." + +But on the occasion of Gabe's spring trip he encountered a statuesque +blonde person where Effie had been wont to reign. + +"Miss--er Bauer out of town?" + +The statue melted a trifle in the sunshine of Gabe's ingratiating smile. + +"Miss Bauer's ill," the statue informed him, using a heavy Eastern +accent. "Anything I can do for you? I'm taking her place." + +"Why--ah--not exactly; no," said Gabe. "Just a temporary indisposition, +I suppose?" + +"Well, you wouldn't hardly call it that, seeing that she's been sick with +typhoid for seven weeks." + +"Typhoid!" shouted Gabe. + +"While I'm not in the habit of asking gentlemen their names, I'd like to +inquire if yours happens to be Marks--Gabe I. Marks?" + +"Sure," said Gabe. "That's me." + +"Miss Bauer's nurse telephones down last week that if a gentleman named +Marks--Gabe I. Marks--drops in and inquires for Miss Bauer, I'm to tell +him that she's changed her mind." + +On the way from Spiegel's corset department to the car, Gabe stopped only +for a bunch of violets. Effie's apartment house reached, he sent up his +card, the violets, and a message that the gentleman was waiting. There +came back a reply that sent Gabie up before the violets were relieved of +their first layer of tissue paper. + +Effie was sitting in a deep chair by the window, a flowered quilt bunched +about her shoulders, her feet in gray knitted bedroom slippers. She +looked every minute of her age, and she knew it, and didn't care. The +hand that she held out to Gabe was a limp, white, fleshless thing that +seemed to bear no relation to the plump, firm member that Gabe had +pressed on so many previous occasions. + +Gabe stared at this pale wraith in a moment of alarm and dismay. Then: + +"You're looking--great!" he stammered. "Great! Nobody'd believe you'd +been sick a minute. Guess you've just been stalling for a beauty rest, +what?" + +Effie smiled a tired little smile, and shook her head slowly. + +"You're a good kid, Gabie, to lie like that just to make me feel good. +But my nurse left yesterday and I had my first real squint at myself in +the mirror. She wouldn't let me look while she was here. After what I +saw staring back at me from that glass a whole ballroom full of French +courtiers whispering sweet nothings in my ear couldn't make me believe +that I look like anything but a hunk of Roquefort, green spots included. +When I think of how my clothes won't fit it makes me shiver." + +"Oh, you'll soon be back at the store as good as new. They fatten up +something wonderful after typhoid. Why, I had a friend----" + +"Did you get my message?" interrupted Effie. + +"I was only talking to hide my nervousness," said Gabe, and started +forward. But Effie waved him away. + +"Sit down," she said. "I've got something to say." She looked +thoughtfully down at one shining finger nail. Her lower lip was caught +between her teeth. When she looked up again her eyes were swimming in +tears. Gabe started forward again. Again Effie waved him away. + +"It's all right, Gabie. I don't blubber as a rule. This fever leaves +you as weak as a rag, and ready to cry if any one says 'Boo!' I've been +doing some high-pressure thinking since nursie left. Had plenty of time +to do it in, sitting here by this window all day. My land! I never knew +there was so much time. There's been days when I haven't talked to a +soul, except the nurse and the chambermaid. Lonesome! Say, the amount +of petting I could stand would surprise you. Of course, my nurse was a +perfectly good nurse--at twenty-five per. But I was just a case to her. +You can't expect a nurse to ooze sympathy over an old maid with the +fever. I tell you I was dying to have some one say 'Sh-sh-sh!' when +there was a noise, just to show they were interested. Whenever I'd moan +the nurse would come over and stick a thermometer in my mouth and write +something down on a chart. The boys and girls at the store sent flowers. +They'd have done the same if I'd died. When the fever broke I just used +to lie there and dream, not feeling anything in particular, and not +caring much whether it was day or night. Know what I mean?" + +Gabie shook a sympathetic head. + +There was a little silence. Then Effie went on. "I used to think I was +pretty smart, earning my own good living, dressing as well as the next +one, and able to spend my vacation in Atlantic City if I wanted to. I +didn't know I was missing anything. But while I was sick I got to +wishing that there was somebody that belonged to me. Somebody to worry +about me, and to sit up nights--somebody that just naturally felt they +had to come tiptoeing into my room every three or four minutes to see if +I was sleeping, or had enough covers on, or wanted a drink, or something. +I got to thinking what it would have been like if I had a husband and +a--home. You'll think I'm daffy, maybe." + +Gabie took Effie's limp white hand in his, and stroked it gently. +Effie's face was turned away from him, toward the noisy street. + +"I used to imagine how he'd come home at six, stamping his feet, maybe, +and making a lot of noise the way men do. And then he'd remember, and +come creaking up the steps, and he'd stick his head in at the door in the +funny, awkward, pathetic way men have in a sick room. And he'd say, +'How's the old girl to-night? I'd better not come near you now, puss, +because I'll bring the cold with me. Been lonesome for your old man?' + +"And I'd say, 'Oh, I don't care how cold you are, dear. The nurse is +downstairs, getting my supper ready.' + +"And then he'd come tiptoeing over to my bed, and stoop down, and kiss +me, and his face would be all cold, and rough, and his mustache would be +wet, and he'd smell out-doorsy and smoky, the way husbands do when they +come in. And I'd reach up and pat his cheek and say, 'You need a shave, +old man.' + +"'I know it,' he'd say, rubbing his cheek up against mine. + +"'Hurry up and wash, now. Supper'll be ready.' + +"'Where are the kids?' he'd ask. 'The house is as quiet as the grave. +Hurry up and get well, kid. It's darn lonesome without you at the table, +and the children's manners are getting something awful, and I never can +find my shirts. Lordy, I guess we won't celebrate when you get up! +Can't you eat a little something nourishing for supper--beefsteak, or a +good plate of soup, or something?' + +"Men are like that, you know. So I'd say then: 'Run along, you old +goose! You'll be suggesting sauerkraut and wieners next. Don't you let +Millie have any marmalade to-night. She's got a spoiled stomach.' + +"And then he'd pound off down the hall to wash up, and I'd shut my eyes, +and smile to myself, and everything would be all right, because he was +home." + +There was a long silence. Effie's eyes were closed. But two great tears +stole out from beneath each lid and coursed their slow way down her thin +cheeks. She did not raise her hand to wipe them away. + +Gabie's other hand reached over and met the one that already clasped +Effie's. + +"Effie," he said, in a voice that was as hoarse as it was gentle. + +"H'm?" said Effie. + +"Will you marry me?" + +"I shouldn't wonder," replied Effie, opening her eyes. "No, don't kiss +me. You might catch something. But say, reach up and smooth my hair +away from my forehead, will you, and call me a couple of fool names. I +don't care how clumsy you are about it. I could stand an awful fuss +being made over me, without being spoiled any." + +Three weeks later Effie was back at the store. Her skirt didn't fit in +the back, and the little hollow places in her cheeks did not take the +customary dash of rouge as well as when they had been plumper. She held +a little impromptu reception that extended down as far as the lingeries +and up as far as the rugs. The old sparkle came back to Effie's eye. +The old assurance and vigor seemed to return. By the time that Miss +Weinstein, of the French lingeries, arrived, breathless, to greet her +Effie was herself again. + +"Well, if you're not a sight for sore eyes, dearie," exclaimed Miss +Weinstein. "My goodness, how grand and thin you are! I'd be willing to +take a course in typhoid myself, if I thought I could lose twenty-five +pounds." + +"I haven't a rag that fits me," Effie announced proudly. + +Miss Weinstein lowered her voice discreetly. "Dearie, can you come down +to my department for a minute? We're going to have a sale on imported +lawnjerie blouses, slightly soiled, from nine to eleven to-morrow. +There's one you positively must see. Hand-embroidered, Irish motifs, and +eyeleted from soup to nuts, and only eight-fifty." + +"I've got a fine chance of buying hand-made waists, no matter how +slightly soiled," Effie made answer, "with a doctor and nurse's bill as +long as your arm." + +"Oh, run along!" scoffed Miss Weinstein. "A person would think you had a +husband to get a grouch every time you get reckless to the extent of a +new waist. You're your own boss. And you know your credit's good. +Honestly, it would be a shame to let this chance slip. You're not +getting tight in your old age, are you?" + +"N-no," faltered Effie, "but----" + +"Then come on," urged Miss Weinstein energetically. "And be thankful you +haven't got a man to raise the dickens when the bill comes in." + +"Do you mean that?" asked Effie slowly, fixing Miss Weinstein with a +thoughtful eye. + +"Surest thing you know. Say, girlie, let's go over to Klein's for lunch +this noon. They have pot roast with potato pfannkuchen on Tuesdays, and +we can split an order between us." + +"Hold that waist till to-morrow, will you?" said Effie. "I've made an +arrangement with a--friend that might make new clothes impossible just +now. But I'm going to wire my party that the arrangement is all off. +I've changed my mind. I ought to get an answer to-morrow. Did you say +it was a thirty-six?" + + + + +VII + +MAYMEYS FROM CUBA + +There is nothing new in this. It has all been done before. But tell me, +what is new? Does the aspiring and perspiring summer vaudeville artist +flatter himself that his stuff is going big? Then does the stout man +with the oyster-colored eyelids in the first row, left, turn his bullet +head on his fat-creased neck to remark huskily to his companion: + +"The hook for him. R-r-r-rotten! That last one was an old Weber'n +Fields' gag. They discarded it back in '91. Say, the good ones is all +dead, anyhow. Take old Salvini, now, and Dan Rice. Them was actors. +Come on out and have something." + +Does the short-story writer felicitate himself upon having discovered a +rare species in humanity's garden? The Blase Reader flips the pages +between his fingers, yawns, stretches, and remarks to his wife: + +"That's a clean lift from Kipling--or is it Conan Doyle? Anyway, I've +read something just like it before. Say, kid, guess what these magazine +guys get for a full page ad.? Nix. That's just like a woman. Three +thousand straight. Fact." + +To anticipate the delver into the past it may be stated that the plot of +this one originally appeared in the Eternal Best Seller, under the +heading, "He Asked You For Bread, and Ye Gave Him a Stone." There may be +those who could not have traced my plagiarism to its source. + +Although the Book has had an unprecedentedly long run it is said to be +less widely read than of yore. + +Even with this preparation I hesitate to confess that this is the story +of a hungry girl in a big city. Well, now, wait a minute. Conceding +that it has been done by every scribbler from tyro to best seller expert, +you will acknowledge that there is the possibility of a fresh +viewpoint--twist--what is it the sporting editors call it? Oh, +yes--slant. There is the possibility of getting a new slant on an old +idea. That may serve to deflect the line of the deadly parallel. + +Just off State Street there is a fruiterer and importer who ought to be +arrested for cruelty. His window is the most fascinating and the most +heartless in Chicago. A line of open-mouthed, wide-eyed gazers is always +to be found before it. Despair, wonder, envy, and rebellion smolder in +the eyes of those gazers. No shop window show should be so diabolically +set forth as to arouse such sensations in the breast of the beholder. It +is a work of art, that window; a breeder of anarchism, a destroyer of +contentment, a second feast of Tantalus. It boasts peaches, dewy and +golden, when peaches have no right to be; plethoric, purple bunches of +English hothouse grapes are there to taunt the ten-dollar-a-week clerk +whose sick wife should be in the hospital; strawberries glow therein when +shortcake is a last summer's memory, and forced cucumbers remind us that +we are taking ours in the form of dill pickles. There is, perhaps, a +choice head of cauliflower, so exquisite in its ivory and green +perfection as to be fit for a bride's bouquet; there are apples so +flawless that if the garden of Eden grew any as perfect it is small +wonder that Eve fell for them. + +There are fresh mushrooms, and jumbo cocoanuts, and green almonds; costly +things in beds of cotton nestle next to strange and marvelous things in +tissue, wrappings. Oh, that window is no place for the hungry, the +dissatisfied, or the man out of a job. When the air is filled with snow +there is that in the sight of muskmelons which incites crime. + +Queerly enough, the gazers before that window foot up the same, year in, +and year out, something after this fashion: + +Item: One anemic little milliner's apprentice in coat and shoes that +even her hat can't redeem. + +Item: One sandy-haired, gritty-complexioned man, with a drooping ragged +mustache, a tin dinner bucket, and lime on his boots. + +Item: One thin mail carrier with an empty mail sack, gaunt cheeks, and +an habitual droop to his left shoulder. + +Item: One errand boy troubled with a chronic sniffle, a shrill and +piping whistle, and a great deal of shuffling foot-work. + +Item: One negro wearing a spotted tan topcoat, frayed trousers and no +collar. His eyes seem all whites as he gazes. + +Enough of the window. But bear it in mind while we turn to Jennie. +Jennie's real name was Janet, and she was Scotch. Canny? Not +necessarily, or why should she have been hungry and out of a job in +January? + +Jennie stood in the row before the window, and stared. The longer she +stared the sharper grew the lines that fright and under-feeding had +chiseled about her nose, and mouth, and eyes. When your last meal is an +eighteen-hour-old memory, and when that memory has only near-coffee and a +roll to dwell on, there is something in the sight of January peaches and +great strawberries carelessly spilling out of a tipped box, just like +they do in the fruit picture on the dining-room wall, that is apt to +carve sharp lines in the corners of the face. + +The tragic line dwindled, going about its business. The man with the +dinner pail and the lime on his boots spat, drew the back of his hand +across his mouth, and turned away with an ugly look. (Pork was up to +$14.25, dressed.) + +The errand boy's blithe whistle died down to a mournful dirge. + +He was window-wishing. His choice wavered between the juicy pears, and +the foreign-looking red things that looked like oranges, and weren't. +One hand went into his coat pocket, extracting an apple that was to have +formed the piece de resistance of his noonday lunch. Now he regarded it +with a sort of pitying disgust, and bit into it with the +middle-of-the-morning contempt that it deserved. + +The mail carrier pushed back his cap and reflectively scratched his head. +How much over his month's wage would that green basket piled high with +exotic fruit come to? + +Jennie stood and stared after they had left, and another line had formed. +If you could have followed her gaze with dotted lines, as they do in the +cartoons, you would have seen that it was not the peaches, or the prickly +pears, or the strawberries, or the muskmelon or even the grapes, that +held her eye. In the center of that wonderful window was an oddly woven +basket. In the basket were brown things that looked like sweet potatoes. +One knew that they were not. A sign over the basket informed the puzzled +gazer that these were maymeys from Cuba. + +Maymeys from Cuba. The humor of it might have struck Jennie if she had +not been so Scotch, and so hungry. As it was, a slow, sullen, heavy +Scotch wrath rose in her breast. Maymeys from Cuba. + +The wantonness of it! Peaches? Yes. Grapes, even, and pears and +cherries in snow time. But maymeys from Cuba--why, one did not even know +if they were to be eaten with butter, or with vinegar, or in the hand, +like an apple. Who wanted maymeys from Cuba? They had gone all those +hundreds of miles to get a fruit or vegetable thing--a thing so +luxurious, so out of all reason that one did not know whether it was to +be baked, or eaten raw. There they lay, in their foreign-looking basket, +taunting Jennie who needed a quarter. + +Have I told you how Jennie happened to be hungry and jobless? Well, then +I sha'n't. It doesn't really matter, anyway. The fact is enough. If +you really demand to know you might inquire of Mr. Felix Klein. You will +find him in a mahogany office on the sixth floor. The door is marked +manager. It was his idea to import Scotch lassies from Dunfermline for +his Scotch linen department. The idea was more fetching than feasible. + +There are people who will tell you that no girl possessing a grain of +common sense and a little nerve need go hungry, no matter how great the +city. Don't you believe them. The city has heard the cry of wolf so +often that it refuses to listen when he is snarling at the door, +particularly when the door is next door. + +Where did we leave Jennie? Still standing on the sidewalk before the +fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys from Cuba. Finally her +Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it no longer. She dug her elbow +into the arm of the person standing next in line. + +"What are those?" she asked. + +The next in line happened to be a man. He was a man without an overcoat, +and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and his hands thrust deep +into his pockets. It looked as though he were trying to crawl inside +himself for warmth. + +"Those? That sign says they're maymeys from Cuba." + +"I know," persisted Jennie, "but what are they?" + +"Search me. Say, I ain't bothering about maymeys from Cuba. A couple of +hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump of butter, would look good +enough to me." + +"Do you suppose any one buys them?" marveled Jennie. + + +"Surest thing you know. Some rich dame coming by here, wondering what +she can have for dinner to tempt the jaded palates of her dear ones, see? +She sees them Cuban maymeys. 'The very thing!' she says. 'I'll have 'em +served just before the salad.' And she sails in and buys a pound or two. +I wonder, now, do you eat 'em with a fruit knife, or with a spoon?" + +Jennie took one last look at the woven basket with its foreign contents. +Then she moved on, slowly. She had been moving on for hours--weeks. + +Most people have acquired the habit of eating three meals a day. In a +city of some few millions the habit has made necessary the establishing +of many thousands of eating places. Jennie would have told you that +there were billions of these. To her the world seemed composed of one +huge, glittering restaurant, with myriads of windows through which one +caught maddening glimpses of ketchup bottles, and nickel coffee heaters, +and piles of doughnuts, and scurrying waiters in white, and people +critically studying menu cards. She walked in a maze of restaurants, +cafes, eating-houses. Tables and diners loomed up at every turn, on +every street, from Michigan Avenue's rose-shaded Louis the Somethingth +palaces, where every waiter owns his man, to the white tile mausoleums +where every man is his own waiter. Everywhere there were windows full of +lemon cream pies, and pans of baked apples swimming in lakes of golden +syrup, and pots of baked beans with the pink and crispy slices of pork +just breaking through the crust. Every dairy lunch mocked one with the +sign of "wheat cakes with maple syrup and country sausage, 20 cents." + +There are those who will say that for cases like Jennie's there are soup +kitchens, Y. W. C. A.'s, relief associations, policemen, and things like +that. And so there are. Unfortunately, the people who need them aren't +up on them. Try it. Plant yourself, penniless, in the middle of State +Street on a busy day, dive into the howling, scrambling, pushing +maelstrom that hurls itself against the mountainous and impregnable form +of the crossing policeman, and see what you'll get out of it, provided +you have the courage. + +Desperation gave Jennie a false courage. On the strength of it she made +two false starts. The third time she reached the arm of the crossing +policeman, and clutched it. That imposing giant removed the whistle from +his mouth, and majestically inclined his head without turning his gaze +upon Jennie, one eye being fixed on a red automobile that was showing +signs of sulking at its enforced pause, the other being busy with a +cursing drayman who was having an argument with his off horse. + +Jennie mumbled her question. + +Said the crossing policeman: + +"Getcher car on Wabash, ride to 'umpty-second, transfer, get off at Blank +Street, and walk three blocks south." + +Then he put the whistle back in his mouth, blew two shrill blasts, and +the horde of men, women, motors, drays, trucks, cars, and horses swept +over him, through him, past him, leaving him miraculously untouched. + +Jennie landed on the opposite curbing, breathing hard. What was that +street? Umpty-what? Well, it didn't matter, anyway. She hadn't the +nickel for car fare. + +What did you do next? You begged from people on the street. Jennie +selected a middle-aged, prosperous, motherly looking woman. She framed +her plea with stiff lips. Before she had finished her sentence she found +herself addressing empty air. The middle-aged, prosperous, motherly +looking woman had hurried on. + +Well, then you tried a man. You had to be careful there. He mustn't be +the wrong kind. There were so many wrong kinds. Just an ordinary +looking family man would be best. Ordinary looking family men are +strangely in the minority. There are so many more bull-necked, tan-shoed +ones. Finally Jennie's eye, grown sharp with want, saw one. Not too +well dressed, kind-faced, middle-aged. + +She fell into step beside him. + +"Please, can you help me out with a shilling?" + +Jennie's nose was red, and her eyes watery. Said the middle-aged family +man with the kindly face: + +"Beat it. You've had about enough I guess." + +Jennie walked into a department store, picked out the oldest and most +stationary looking floorwalker, and put it to him. The floorwalker bent +his head, caught the word "food," swung about, and pointed over Jennie's +head. + +"Grocery department on the seventh floor. Take one of those elevators +up." + +Any one but a floorwalker could have seen the misery in Jennie's face. +But to floorwalkers all women's faces are horrible. + +Jennie turned and walked blindly toward the elevators. There was no +fight left in her. If the floorwalker had said, "Silk negligees on the +fourth floor. Take one of those elevators up," Jennie would have ridden +up to the fourth floor, and stupidly gazed at pink silk and val lace +negligees in glass cases. + +Tell me, have you ever visited the grocery department of a great store on +the wrong side of State Street? It's a mouth-watering experience. A +department store grocery is a glorified mixture of delicatessen shop, +meat market, and vaudeville. Starting with the live lobsters and crabs +you work your hungry way right around past the cheeses, and the sausages, +and the hams, and tongues, and head-cheese, past the blonde person in +white who makes marvelous and uneatable things out of gelatine, through a +thousand smells and scents--smells of things smoked, and pickled, and +spiced, and baked and preserved, and roasted. + +Jennie stepped out of the elevator, licking her lips. She sniffed the +air, eagerly, as a hound sniffs the scent. She shut her eyes when she +passed the sugar-cured hams. A woman was buying a slice from one, and +the butcher was extolling its merits. Jennie caught the words "juicy" +and "corn-fed." + +That particular store prides itself on its cheese department. It boasts +that there one can get anything in cheese from the simple cottage variety +to imposing mottled Stilton. There are cheeses from France, cheeses from +Switzerland, cheeses from Holland. Brick and parmesan, Edam and +limburger perfumed the atmosphere. + +Behind the counters were big, full-fed men in white aprons, and coats. +They flourished keen bright knives. As Jennie gazed, one of them, in a +moment of idleness, cut a tiny wedge from a rich yellow Swiss cheese and +stood nibbling it absently, his eyes wandering toward the blonde gelatine +demonstrator. Jennie swayed, and caught the counter. She felt horribly +faint and queer. She shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them a +woman--a fat, housewifely, comfortable looking woman--was standing before +the cheese counter. She spoke to the cheese man. Once more his sharp +knife descended and he was offering the possible customer a sample. She +picked it off the knife's sharp tip, nibbled thoughtfully, shook her +head, and passed on. A great, glorious world of hope opened out before +Jennie. + +Her cheeks grew hot, and her eyes felt dry and bright as she approached +the cheese counter. + +"A bit of that," she said, pointing. "It doesn't look just as I like it." + +"Very fine, madam," the man assured her, and turned the knife point +toward her, with the infinitesimal wedge of cheese reposing on its blade. +Jennie tried to keep her hand steady as she delicately picked it off, +nibbled as she had seen that other woman do it, her head on one side, +before it shook a slow negative. The effort necessary to keep from +cramming the entire piece into her mouth at once left her weak and +trembling. She passed on as the other woman had done, around the corner, +and into a world of sausages. Great rosy mounds of them filled counters +and cases. Sausage! Sneer, you pate de foies grasers! But may you know +the day when hunger will have you. And on that day may you run into +linked temptation in the form of Braunschweiger Metwurst. May you know +the longing that causes the eyes to glaze at the sight of Thuringer +sausage, and the mouth to water at the scent of Cervelat wurst, and the +fingers to tremble at the nearness of smoked liver. + +Jennie stumbled on, through the smells and the sights. That nibble of +cheese had been like a drop of human blood to a man-eating tiger. It +made her bold, cunning, even while it maddened. She stopped at this +counter and demanded a slice of summer sausage. It was paper-thin, but +delicious beyond belief. At the next counter there was corned beef, +streaked fat and lean. Jennie longed to bury her teeth in the succulent +meat and get one great, soul-satisfying mouthful. She had to be content +with her judicious nibbling. To pass the golden-brown, breaded pig's +feet was torture. To look at the codfish balls was agony. And so Jennie +went on, sampling, tasting, the scraps of food acting only as an +aggravation. Up one aisle, and down the next she went. And then, just +around the corner, she brought up before the grocery department's pride +and boast, the Scotch bakery. It is the store's star vaudeville feature. +All day long the gaping crowd stands before it, watching David the Scone +Man, as with sleeves rolled high above his big arms, he kneads, and +slaps, and molds, and thumps and shapes the dough into toothsome Scotch +confections. There was a crowd around the white counters now, and the +flat baking surface of the gas stove was just hot enough, and David the +Scone Man (he called them Scuns) was whipping about here and there, +turning the baking oat cakes, filling the shelf above the stove when they +were done to a turn, rolling out fresh ones, waiting on customers. His +nut-cracker face almost allowed itself a pleased expression--but not +quite. David, the Scone Man, was Scotch (I was going to add, d'ye ken, +but I will not). + +Jennie wondered if she really saw those things. Mutton pies! Scones! +Scotch short bread! Oat cakes! She edged closer, wriggling her way +through the little crowd until she stood at the counter's edge. David, +the Scone Man, his back to the crowd, was turning the last batch of oat +cakes. Jennie felt strangely light-headed, and unsteady, and airy. She +stared straight ahead, a half-smile on her lips, while a hand that she +knew was her own, and that yet seemed no part of her, stole out, very, +very slowly, and cunningly, and extracted a hot scone from the pile that +lay in the tray on the counter. That hand began to steal back, more +quickly now. But not quickly enough. Another hand grasped her wrist. A +woman's high, shrill voice (why will women do these things to each +other?) said, excitedly: + +"Say, Scone Man! Scone Man! This girl is stealing something!" + +A buzz of exclamations from the crowd--a closing in upon her--a whirl of +faces, and counter, and trays, and gas stove. Jennie dropped with a +crash, the warm scone still grasped in her fingers. + +Just before the ambulance came it was the blonde lady of the impossible +gelatines who caught the murmur that came from Jennie's white lips. The +blonde lady bent her head closer. Closer still. When she raised her +face to those other faces crowded near, her eyes were round with surprise. + +"'S far's I can make out, she says her name's Mamie, and she's from Cuba. +Well, wouldn't that eat you! I always thought they was dark complected." + + + + +VIII + +THE LEADING LADY + +The leading lady lay on her bed and wept. Not as you have seen leading +ladies weep, becomingly, with eyebrows pathetically V-shaped, mouth +quivering, sequined bosom heaving. The leading lady lay on her bed in a +red-and-blue-striped kimono and wept as a woman weeps, her head burrowing +into the depths of the lumpy hotel pillow, her teeth biting the +pillow-case to choke back the sounds so that the grouch in the next room +might not hear. + +Presently the leading lady's right hand began to grope about on the +bedspread for her handkerchief. Failing to find it, she sat up wearily, +raising herself on one elbow and pushing her hair back from her +forehead--not as you have seen a leading lady pass a lily hand across her +alabaster brow, but as a heart-sick woman does it. Her tears and +sniffles had formed a little oasis of moisture on the pillow's white +bosom so that the ugly stripe of the ticking showed through. She gazed +down at the damp circle with smarting, swollen eyes, and another lump +came up into her throat. + +Then she sat up resolutely, and looked about her. The leading lady had a +large and saving sense of humor. But there is nothing that blunts the +sense of humor more quickly than a few months of one-night stands. Even +O. Henry could have seen nothing funny about that room. + +The bed was of green enamel, with fly-specked gold trimmings. It looked +like a huge frog. The wall-paper was a crime. It represented an army of +tan mustard plasters climbing up a chocolate-fudge wall. The leading +lady was conscious of a feeling of nausea as she gazed at it. So she got +up and walked to the window. The room faced west, and the hot afternoon +sun smote full on her poor swollen eyes. Across the street the red brick +walls of the engine-house caught the glare and sent it back. The +firemen, in their blue shirt-sleeves, were seated in the shade before the +door, their chairs tipped at an angle of sixty. The leading lady stared +down into the sun-baked street, turned abruptly and made as though to +fall upon the bed again, with a view to forming another little damp oasis +on the pillow. But when she reached the center of the stifling little +bedroom her eye chanced on the electric call-button near the door. Above +the electric bell was tacked a printed placard giving information on the +subjects of laundry, ice-water, bell-boys and dining-room hours. + +The leading lady stood staring at it a moment thoughtfully. Then with a +sudden swift movement she applied her forefinger to the button and held +it there for a long half-minute. Then she sat down on the edge of the +bed, her kimono folded about her, and waited. + +She waited until a lank bell-boy, in a brown uniform that was some sizes +too small for him, had ceased to take any interest in the game of chess +which Bauer and Merkle, the champion firemen chess-players, were +contesting on the walk before the open doorway of the engine-house. The +proprietor of the Burke House had originally intended that the brown +uniform be worn by a diminutive bell-boy, such as one sees in musical +comedies. But the available supply of stage size bell-boys in our town +is somewhat limited and was soon exhausted. There followed a succession +of lank bell-boys, with arms and legs sticking ungracefully out of +sleeves and trousers. + +"Come!" called the leading lady quickly, in answer to the lank youth's +footsteps, and before he had had time to knock. + +"Ring?" asked the boy, stepping into the torrid little room. + +The leading lady did not reply immediately. She swallowed something in +her throat and pushed back the hair from her moist forehead again. The +brown uniform repeated his question, a trifle irritably. Whereupon the +leading lady spoke, desperately: + +"Is there a woman around this place? I don't mean dining-room girls, or +the person behind the cigar-counter." + +Since falling heir to the brown uniform the lank youth had heard some +strange requests. He had been interviewed by various ladies in +varicolored kimonos relative to liquid refreshment, laundry and the cost +of hiring a horse and rig for a couple of hours. One had even summoned +him to ask if there was a Bible in the house. But this latest question +was a new one. He stared, leaning against the door and thrusting one +hand into the depths of his very tight breeches pocket. + +"Why, there's Pearlie Schultz," he said at last, with a grin. + +"Who's she?" The leading lady sat up expectantly. + +"Steno." + +The expectant figure drooped. "Blonde? And Irish crochet collar with a +black velvet bow on her chest?" + +"Who? Pearlie? Naw. You mustn't get Pearlie mixed with the common or +garden variety of stenos. Pearlie is fat, and she wears specs and she's +got a double chin. Her hair is skimpy and she don't wear no rat. W'y no +traveling man has ever tried to flirt with Pearlie yet. Pearlie's what +you'd call a woman, all right. You wouldn't never make a mistake and +think she'd escaped from the first row in the chorus." + +The leading lady rose from the bed, reached out for her pocket-book, +extracted a dime, and held it out to the bell-boy. + +"Here. Will you ask her to come up here to me? Tell her I said please." + +After he had gone she seated herself on the edge of the bed again, with a +look in her eyes like that which you have seen in the eyes of a dog that +is waiting for a door to be opened. + +Fifteen minutes passed. The look in the eyes of the leading lady began +to fade. Then a footstep sounded down the hall. The leading lady cocked +her head to catch it, and smiled blissfully. It was a heavy, comfortable +footstep, under which a board or two creaked. There came a big, sensible +thump-thump-thump at the door, with stout knuckles. The leading lady +flew to answer it. She flung the door wide and stood there, clutching +her kimono at the throat and looking up into a red, good-natured face. + +Pearlie Schultz looked down at the leading lady kindly and benignantly, +as a mastiff might look at a terrier. + +"Lonesome for a bosom to cry on?" asked she, and stepped into the room, +walked to the west windows, and jerked down the shades with a zip-zip, +shutting off the yellow glare. She came back to where the leading lady +was standing and patted her on the cheek, lightly. + +"You tell me all about it," said she, smiling. + +The leading lady opened her lips, gulped, tried again, gulped +again--Pearlie Schultz shook a sympathetic head. + +"Ain't had a decent, close-to-nature powwow with a woman for weeks and +weeks, have you?" + +"How did you know?" cried the leading lady. + +"You've got that hungry look. There was a lady drummer here last winter, +and she had the same expression. She was so dead sick of eating her +supper and then going up to her ugly room and reading and sewing all +evening that it was a wonder she'd stayed good. She said it was easy +enough for the men. They could smoke, and play pool, and go to a show, +and talk to any one that looked good to 'em. But if she tried to amuse +herself everybody'd say she was tough. She cottoned to me like a burr to +a wool skirt. She traveled for a perfumery house, and she said she +hadn't talked to a woman, except the dry-goods clerks who were nice to +her trying to work her for her perfume samples, for weeks an' weeks. +Why, that woman made crochet by the bolt, and mended her clothes evenings +whether they needed it or not, and read till her eyes come near going +back on her." + +The leading lady seized Pearlie's hand and squeezed it. + +"That's it! Why, I haven't talked--really talked--to a real woman since +the company went out on the road. I'm leading lady of the 'Second Wife' +company, you know. It's one of those small cast plays, with only five +people in it. I play the wife, and I'm the only woman in the cast. It's +terrible. I ought to be thankful to get the part these days. And I was, +too. But I didn't know it would be like this. I'm going crazy. The men +in the company are good kids, but I can't go trailing around after them +all day. Besides, it wouldn't be right. They're all married, except +Billy, who plays the kid, and he's busy writing a vawdeville skit that he +thinks the New York managers are going to fight for when he gets back +home. We were to play Athens, Wisconsin, to-night, but the house burned +down night before last, and that left us with an open date. When I heard +the news you'd have thought I had lost my mother. It's bad enough having +a whole day to kill but when I think of to-night," the leading lady's +voice took on a note of hysteria, "it seems as though I'd----" + +"Say," Pearlie interrupted, abruptly, "you ain't got a real good +corset-cover pattern, have you? One that fits smooth over the bust and +don't slip off the shoulders? I don't seem able to get my hands on the +kind I want." + +"Have I!" yelled the leading lady. And made a flying leap from the bed +to the floor. + +She flapped back the cover of a big suit-case and began burrowing into +its depths, strewing the floor with lingerie, newspaper clippings, +blouses, photographs and Dutch collars. Pearlie came over and sat down +on the floor in the midst of the litter. The leading lady dived once +more, fished about in the bottom of the suit-case and brought a crumpled +piece of paper triumphantly to the surface. + +"This is it. It only takes a yard and five-eighths. And fits! Like +Anna Held's skirts. Comes down in a V front and back--like this. See? +And no fulness. Wait a minute. I'll show you my princess slip. I made +it all by hand, too. I'll bet you couldn't buy it under fifteen dollars, +and it cost me four dollars and eighty cents, with the lace and all." + +Before an hour had passed, the leading lady had displayed all her +treasures, from the photograph of her baby that died to her new Blanche +Ring curl cluster, and was calling Pearlie by her first name. When a +bell somewhere boomed six o'clock Pearlie was being instructed in a new +exercise calculated to reduce the hips an inch a month. + +"My land!" cried Pearlie, aghast, and scrambled to her feet as nimbly as +any woman can who weighs two hundred pounds. "Supper-time, and I've got +a bunch of letters an inch thick to get out! I'd better reduce that some +before I begin on my hips. But say, I've had a lovely time." + +The leading lady clung to her. "You've saved my life. Why, I forgot all +about being hot and lonely and a couple of thousand miles from New York. +Must you go?" + +"Got to. But if you'll promise you won't laugh, I'll make a date for +this evening that'll give you a new sensation anyway. There's going to +be a strawberry social on the lawn of the parsonage of our church. I've +got a booth. You shed that kimono, and put on a thin dress and those +curls and some powder, and I'll introduce you as my friend, Miss Evans. +You don't look Evans, but this is a Methodist church strawberry festival, +and if I was to tell them that you are leading lady of the 'Second Wife' +company they'd excommunicate my booth." + +"A strawberry social!" gasped the leading lady. "Do they still have +them?" She did not laugh. "Why, I used to go to strawberry festivals +when I was a little girl in----" + +"Careful! You'll be giving away your age, and, anyway, you don't look +it. Fashions in strawberry socials ain't changed much. Better bathe +your eyes in eau de cologne or whatever it is they're always dabbing on +'em in books. See you at eight." + +At eight o'clock Pearlie's thump-thump sounded again, and the leading +lady sprang to the door as before. Pearlie stared. This was no +tear-stained, heat-bedraggled creature in an unbecoming red-striped +kimono. It was a remarkably pretty woman in a white lingerie gown over a +pink slip. The leading lady knew a thing or two about the gentle art of +making-up! + +"That just goes to show," remarked Pearlie, "that you must never judge a +woman in a kimono or a bathing suit. You look nineteen. Say, I forgot +something down-stairs. Just get your handkerchief and chamois together +and meet in my cubbyhole next to the lobby, will you? I'll be ready for +you." + +Down-stairs she summoned the lank bell-boy. "You go outside and tell Sid +Strang I want to see him, will you? He's on the bench with the baseball +bunch." + +Pearlie had not seen Sid Strang outside. She did not need to. She knew +he was there. In our town all the young men dress up in their pale gray +suits and lavender-striped shirts after supper on summer evenings. Then +they stroll down to the Burke House, buy a cigar and sit down on the +benches in front of the hotel to talk baseball and watch the girls go by. +It is astonishing to note the number of our girls who have letters to +mail after supper. One would think that they must drive their pens +fiercely all the afternoon in order to get out such a mass of +correspondence. + +The obedient Sid reached the door of Pearlie's little office just off the +lobby as the leading lady came down the stairs with a spangled scarf +trailing over her arm. It was an effective entrance. + +"Why, hello!" said Pearlie, looking up from her typewriter as though Sid +Strang were the last person in the world she expected to see. "What do +you want here? Ethel, this is my friend, Mr. Sid Strang, one of our +rising young lawyers. His neckties always match his socks. Sid, this is +my friend, Miss Ethel Evans, of New York. We're going over to the +strawberry social at the M. E. parsonage. I don't suppose you'd care +about going?" + +Mr. Sid Strang gazed at the leading lady in the white lingerie dress with +the pink slip, and the V-shaped neck, and the spangled scarf, and turned +to Pearlie. + +"Why, Pearlie Schultz!" he said reproachfully. "How can you ask? You +know what a strawberry social means to me! I haven't missed one in +years!" + +"I know it," replied Pearlie, with a grin. "You feel the same way about +Thursday evening prayer-meeting too, don't you? You can walk over with +us if you want to. We're going now. Miss Evans and I have got a booth." + +Sid walked. Pearlie led them determinedly past the rows of gray suits +and lavender and pink shirts on the benches in front of the hotel. And +as the leading lady came into view the gray suits stopped talking +baseball and sat up and took notice. Pearlie had known all those young +men inside of the swagger suits in the days when their summer costume +consisted of a pair of dad's pants cut down to a doubtful fit, and a +nondescript shirt damp from the swimming-hole. So she called out, +cheerily: + +"We're going over to the strawberry festival. I expect to see all you +boys there to contribute your mite to the church carpet." + +The leading lady turned to look at them, and smiled. They were such a +dapper, pink-cheeked, clean-looking lot of boys, she thought. At that +the benches rose to a man and announced that they might as well stroll +over right now. Whenever a new girl comes to visit in our town our boys +make a concerted rush at her, and develop a "case" immediately, and the +girl goes home when her visit is over with her head swimming, and forever +after bores the girls of her home town with tales of her conquests. + +The ladies of the First M. E. Church still talk of the money they +garnered at the strawberry festival. Pearlie's out-of-town friend was +garnerer-in-chief. You take a cross-eyed, pock-marked girl and put her +in a white dress, with a pink slip, on a green lawn under a string of +rose-colored Japanese lanterns, and she'll develop an almost Oriental +beauty. It is an ideal setting. The leading lady was not cross-eyed or +pock-marked. She stood at the lantern-illumined booth, with Pearlie in +the background, and dispensed an unbelievable amount of strawberries. +Sid Strang and the hotel bench brigade assisted. They made engagements +to take Pearlie and her friend down river next day, and to the ball game, +and planned innumerable picnics, gazing meanwhile into the leading lady's +eyes. There grew in the cheeks of the leading lady a flush that was not +brought about by the pink slip, or the Japanese lanterns, or the skillful +application of rouge. + +By nine o'clock the strawberry supply was exhausted, and the president of +the Foreign Missionary Society was sending wildly down-town for more +ice-cream. + +"I call it an outrage," puffed Pearlie happily, ladling ice-cream like +mad. "Making a poor working girl like me slave all evening! How many +was that last order? Four? My land! that's the third dish of ice-cream +Ed White's had! You'll have something to tell the villagers about when +you get back to New York." + +The leading lady turned a flushed face toward Pearlie. "This is more fun +than the Actors' Fair. I had the photograph booth last year, and I took +in nearly as much as Lil Russell; and goodness knows, all she needs to do +at a fair is to wear her diamond-and-pearl stomacher and her set-piece +smile, and the men just swarm around her like the pictures of a crowd in +a McCutcheon cartoon." + +When the last Japanese lantern had guttered out, Pearlie Schultz and the +leading lady prepared to go home. Before they left, the M. E. ladies +came over to Pearlie's booth and personally congratulated the leading +lady, and thanked her for the interest she had taken in the cause, and +the secretary of the Epworth League asked her to come to the tea that was +to be held at her home the following Tuesday. The leading lady thanked +her and said she'd come if she could. + +Escorted by a bodyguard of gray suits and lavender-striped shirts Pearlie +and her friend, Miss Evans, walked toward the hotel. The attentive +bodyguard confessed itself puzzled. + +"Aren't you staying at Pearlie's house?" asked Sid tenderly, when they +reached the Burke House. The leading lady glanced up at the windows of +the stifling little room that faced west. + +"No," answered she, and paused at the foot of the steps to the ladies' +entrance. The light from the electric globe over the doorway shone on +her hair and sparkled in the folds of her spangled scarf. + +"I'm not staying at Pearlie's because my name isn't Ethel Evans. It's +Aimee Fox, with a little French accent mark over the double E. I'm +leading lady of the 'Second Wife' company and old enough to be--well, +your aunty, anyway. We go out at one-thirty to-morrow morning." + + + + +IX + +THAT HOME-TOWN FEELING + +We all have our ambitions. Mine is to sit in a rocking-chair on the +sidewalk at the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets, and watch the +crowds go by. South Clark Street is one of the most interesting and +cosmopolitan thoroughfares in the world (New Yorkers please sniff). If +you are from Paris, France, or Paris, Illinois, and should chance to be +in that neighborhood, you will stop at Tony's news stand to buy your +home-town paper. Don't mistake the nature of this story. There is +nothing of the shivering-newsboy-waif about Tony. He has the voice of a +fog-horn, the purple-striped shirt of a sport, the diamond scarf-pin of a +racetrack tout, and the savoir faire of the gutter-bred. You'd never +pick him for a newsboy if it weren't for his chapped hands and the +eternal cold-sore on the upper left corner of his mouth. + +It is a fascinating thing, Tony's stand. A high wooden structure rising +tier on tier, containing papers from every corner of the world. I'll +defy you to name a paper that Tony doesn't handle, from Timbuctoo to +Tarrytown, from South Bend to South Africa. A paper marked Christiania, +Norway, nestles next to a sheet from Kalamazoo, Michigan. You can get +the War Cry, or Le Figaro. With one hand, Tony will give you the Berlin +Tageblatt, and with the other the Times from Neenah, Wisconsin. Take +your choice between the Bulletin from Sydney, Australia, or the Bee from +Omaha. + +But perhaps you know South Clark Street. It is honeycombed with good +copy--man-size stuff. South Clark Street reminds one of a slatternly +woman, brave in silks and velvets on the surface, but ragged, and rumpled +and none too clean as to nether garments. It begins with a tenement so +vile, so filthy, so repulsive, that the municipal authorities deny its +very existence. It ends with a brand-new hotel, all red brick, and white +tiling, and Louise Quinze furniture, and sour-cream colored marble lobby, +and oriental rugs lavishly scattered under the feet of the unappreciative +guest from Kansas City. It is a street of signs, is South Clark. They +vary all the way from "Banca Italiana" done in fat, fly-specked letters +of gold, to "Sang Yuen" scrawled in Chinese red and black. Spaghetti and +chop suey and dairy lunches nestle side by side. Here an electric sign +blazons forth the tempting announcement of lunch. Just across the way, +delicately suggesting a means of availing one's self of the invitation, +is another which announces "Loans." South Clark Street can transform a +winter overcoat into hamburger and onions so quickly that the eye can't +follow the hand. + +Do you gather from this that you are being taken slumming? Not at all. +For the passer-by on Clark Street varies as to color, nationality, +raiment, finger-nails, and hair-cut according to the locality in which +you find him. + +At the tenement end the feminine passer-by is apt to be shawled, swarthy, +down-at-the-heel, and dragging a dark-eyed, fretting baby in her wake. +At the hotel end you will find her blonde of hair, velvet of boot, plumed +of head-gear, and prone to have at her heels a white, woolly, pink-eyed +dog. + +The masculine Clark Streeter? I throw up my hands. Pray remember that +South Clark Street embraces the dime lodging house, pawnshop, hotel, +theater, chop-suey and railway office district, all within a few blocks. +From the sidewalk in front of his groggery, "Bath House John" can see the +City Hall. The trim, khaki-garbed enlistment officer rubs elbows with +the lodging house bum. The masculine Clark Streeter may be of the kind +that begs a dime for a bed, or he may loll in manicured luxury at the +marble-lined hotel. South Clark Street is so splendidly indifferent. + +Copy-hunting, I approached Tony with hope in my heart, a smile on my +lips, and a nickel in my hand. + +"Philadelphia--er--Inquirer?" I asked, those being the city and paper +which fire my imagination least. + +Tony whipped it out, dexterously. + +I looked at his keen blue eye, his lean brown face, and his punishing +jaw, and I knew that no airy persiflage would deceive him. Boldly I +waded in. + +"I write for the magazines," said I. + +"Do they know it?" grinned Tony. + +"Just beginning to be faintly aware. Your stand looks like a story to +me. Tell me, does one ever come your way? For instance, don't they come +here asking for their home-town paper--sobs in their voice--grasp the +sheet with trembling hands--type swims in a misty haze before their +eyes--turn aside to brush away a tear--all that kind of stuff, you know?" + +Tony's grin threatened his cold-sore. You can't stand on the corner of +Clark and Randolph all those years without getting wise to everything +there is. + +"I'm on," said he, "but I'm afraid I can't accommodate, girlie. I guess +my ear ain't attuned to that sob stuff. What's that? Yessir. Nossir, +fifteen cents. Well, I can't help that; fifteen's the reg'lar price of +foreign papers. Thanks. There, did you see that? I bet that gink give +up fifteen of his last two bits to get that paper. O, well, sometimes +they look happy, and then again sometimes they--Yes'm. Mississippi? +Five cents. Los Vegas Optic right here. Heh there! You're forgettin' +your change!--an' then again sometimes they look all to the doleful. +Say, stick around. Maybe somebody'll start something. You can't never +tell." + +And then this happened. + +A man approached Tony's news stand from the north, and a woman approached +Tony's news stand from the south. They brought my story with them. + +The woman reeked of the city. I hope you know what I mean. She bore the +stamp, and seal, and imprint of it. It had ground its heel down on her +face. At the front of her coat she wore a huge bunch of violets, with a +fleshly tuberose rising from its center. Her furs were voluminous. Her +hat was hidden beneath the cascades of a green willow plume. A green +willow plume would make Edna May look sophisticated. She walked with +that humping hip movement which city women acquire. She carried a +jangling handful of useless gold trinkets. Her heels were too high, and +her hair too yellow, and her lips too red, and her nose too white, and +her cheeks too pink. Everything about her was "too," from the black +stitching on her white gloves to the buckle of brilliants in her hat. +The city had her, body and soul, and had fashioned her in its metallic +cast. You would have sworn that she had never seen flowers growing in a +field. + +Said she to Tony: + +"Got a Kewaskum Courier?" + +As she said it the man stopped at the stand and put his question. To +present this thing properly I ought to be able to describe them both at +the same time, like a juggler keeping two balls in the air at once. +Kindly carry the lady in your mind's eye. The man was tall and rawboned, +with very white teeth, very blue eyes and an open-faced collar that +allowed full play to an objectionably apparent Adam's apple. His hair +and mustache were sandy, his gait loping. His manner, clothes, and +complexion breathed of Waco, Texas (or is it Arizona?) + +Said he to Tony: + +"Let me have the London Times." + +Well, there you are. I turned an accusing eye on Tony. + +"And you said no stories came your way," I murmured, reproachfully. + +"Help yourself," said Tony. + +The blonde lady grasped the Kewaskum Courier. Her green plume appeared +to be unduly agitated as she searched its columns. The sheet rattled. +There was no breeze. The hands in the too-black stitched gloves were +trembling. + +I turned from her to the man just in time to see the Adam's apple leaping +about unpleasantly and convulsively. Whereupon I jumped to two +conclusions. + +Conclusion one: Any woman whose hands can tremble over the Kewaskum +Courier is homesick. + +Conclusion two: Any man, any part of whose anatomy can become convulsed +over the London Times is homesick. + +She looked up from her Courier. He glanced away from his Times. As the +novelists have it, their eyes met. And there, in each pair of eyes there +swam that misty haze about which I had so earnestly consulted Tony. The +Green Plume took an involuntary step forward. The Adam's Apple did the +same. They spoke simultaneously. + +"They're going to pave Main Street," said the Green Plume, "and Mrs. +Wilcox, that was Jeri Meyers, has got another baby girl, and the ladies +of the First M. E. made seven dollars and sixty-nine cents on their +needle-work bazaar and missionary tea. I ain't been home in eleven +years." + +"Hallem is trying for Parliament in Westchester and the King is back at +Windsor. My mother wears a lace cap down to breakfast, and the place is +famous for its tapestries and yew trees and family ghost. I haven't been +home in twelve years." + +The great, soft light of fellow feeling and sympathy glowed in the eyes +of each. The Green Plume took still another step forward and laid her +hand on his arm (as is the way of Green Plumes the world over). + +"Why don't you go, kid?" she inquired, softly. + +Adam's Apple gnawed at his mustache end. "I'm the black sheep. Why +don't you?" + +The blonde lady looked down at her glove tips. Her lower lip was caught +between her teeth. + +"What's the feminine for black sheep? I'm that. Anyway, I'd be afraid +to go home for fear it would be too much of a shock for them when they +saw my hair. They wasn't in on the intermediate stages when it was +chestnut, auburn, Titian, gold, and orange colored. I want to spare +their feelings. The last time they saw me it was just plain brown. +Where I come from a woman who dyes her hair when it is beginning to turn +gray is considered as good as lost. Funny, ain't it? And yet I remember +the minister's wife used to wear false teeth--the kind that clicks. But +hair is different." + +"Dear lady," said the blue-eyed man, "it would make no difference to your +own people. I know they would be happy to see you, hair and all. One's +own people----" + +"My folks? That's just it. If the Prodigal Son had been a daughter +they'd probably have handed her one of her sister's mother hubbards, and +put her to work washing dishes in the kitchen. You see, after Ma died my +brother married, and I went to live with him and Lil. I was an ugly +little mug, and it looked all to the Cinderella for me, with the coach, +and four, and prince left out. Lil was the village beauty when my +brother married her, and she kind of got into the habit of leaving the +heavy role to me, and confining herself to thinking parts. One day I +took twenty dollars and came to the city. Oh, I paid it back long ago, +but I've never been home since. But say, do you know every time I get +near a news stand like this I grab the home-town paper. I'll bet I've +kept track every time my sister-in-law's sewing circle has met for the +last ten years, and the spring the paper said they built a new porch I +was just dying to write and ask'em what they did with the Virginia +creeper that used to cover the whole front and sides of the old porch." + +"Look here," said the man, very abruptly, "if it's money you need, +why----" + +"Me! Do I look like a touch? Now you----" + +"Finest stock farm and ranch in seven counties. I come to Chicago once a +year to sell. I've got just thirteen thousand nestling next to my left +floating rib this minute." + +The eyes of the woman with the green plume narrowed down to two +glittering slits. A new look came into her face--a look that matched her +hat, and heels and gloves and complexion and hair. + +"Thirteen thousand! Thirteen thous---- Say, isn't it chilly on this +corner, h'm? I know a kind of a restaurant just around the corner +where----" + +"It's no use," said the sandy-haired man, gently. "And I wouldn't have +said that, if I were you. I was going back to-day on the 5:25, but I'm +sick of it all. So are you, or you wouldn't have said what you just +said. Listen. Let's go back home, you and I. The sight of a Navajo +blanket nauseates me. The thought of those prairies makes my eyes ache. +I know that if I have to eat one more meal cooked by that Chink of mine +I'll hang him by his own pigtail. Those rangy western ponies aren't +horseflesh, fit for a man to ride. Why, back home our stables were---- +Look here. I want to see a silver tea-service, with a coat-of-arms on +it. I want to dress for dinner, and take in a girl with a white gown and +smooth white shoulders. My sister clips roses in the morning, before +breakfast, in a pink ruffled dress and garden gloves. Would you believe +that, here, on Clark Street, with a whiskey sign overhead, and the +stock-yard smells undernose? O, hell! I'm going home." + +"Home?" repeated the blonde lady. "Home?" The sagging lines about her +flaccid chin took on a new look of firmness and resolve. The light of +determination glowed in her eyes. + +"I'll beat you to it," she said. "I'm going home, too. I'll be there +to-morrow. I'm dead sick of this. Who cares whether I live or die? +It's just one darned round of grease paint, and sky blue tights, and new +boarding houses and humping over to the theater every night, going on, +and humping back to the room again. I want to wash up some supper dishes +with egg on 'em, and set some yeast for bread, and pop a dishpan full of +corn, and put a shawl over my head and run over to Millie Krause's to get +her kimono sleeve pattern. I'm sour on this dirt and noise. I want to +spend the rest of my life in a place so that when I die they'll put a +column in the paper, with a verse at the top, and all the neighbors'll +come in and help bake up. Here--why, here I'd just be two lines on the +want ad page, with fifty cents extra for 'Kewaskum paper please copy.'" + +The man held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said, "and please excuse me if +I say God bless you. I've never really wanted to say it before, so it's +quite extraordinary. My name's Guy Peel." + +The white glove, with its too-conspicuous black stitching, disappeared +within his palm. + +"Mine's Mercedes Meron, late of the Morning Glory Burlesquers, but from +now on Sadie Hayes, of Kewaskum, Wisconsin. Good-bye and--well--God +bless you, too. Say, I hope you don't think I'm in the habit of talking +to strange gents like this." + +"I am quite sure you are not," said Guy Peel, very gravely, and bowed +slightly before he went south on Clark Street, and she went north. + +Dear Reader, will you take my hand while I assist you to make a one +year's leap. Whoop-la! There you are. + +A man and a woman approached Tony's news stand. You are quite right. +But her willow plume was purple this time. A purple willow plume would +make Mario Doro look sophisticated. The man was sandy-haired, raw-boned, +with a loping gait, very blue eyes, very white teeth, and an +objectionably apparent Adam's apple. He came from the north, and she +from the south. + +In story books, and on the stage, when two people meet unexpectedly after +a long separation they always stop short, bring one hand up to their +breast, and say: "You!" Sometimes, especially in the case where the +heroine chances on the villain, they say, simultaneously: "You! Here!" +I have seen people reunited under surprising circumstances, but they +never said, "You!" They said something quite unmelodramatic, and +commonplace, such as: "Well, look who's here!" or, "My land! If it +ain't Ed! How's Ed?" + +So it was that the Purple Willow Plume and the Adam's Apple stopped, +shook hands, and viewed one another while the Plume said, "I kind of +thought I'd bump into you. Felt it in my bones." And the Adam's Apple +said: + +"Then you're not living in Kewaskum--er--Wisconsin?" + +"Not any," responded she, briskly. "How do you happen to be straying +away from the tapestries, and the yew trees and the ghost, and the pink +roses, and the garden gloves, and the silver tea-service with the +coat-of-arms on it?" + +A slow, grim smile overspread the features of the man. "You tell yours +first," he said. + +"Well," began she, "in the first place, my name's Mercedes Meron, of the +Morning Glory Burlesquers, formerly Sadie Hayes of Kewaskum, Wisconsin. +I went home next day, like I said I would. Say, Mr. Peel (you said Peel, +didn't you? Guy Peel. Nice, neat name), to this day, when I eat lobster +late at night, and have dreams, it's always about that visit home." + +"How long did you stay?" + +"I'm coming to that. Or maybe you can figure it out yourself when I tell +you I've been back eleven months. I wired the folks I was coming, and +then I came before they had a chance to answer. When the train reached +Kewaskum I stepped off into the arms of a dowd in a +home-made-made-over-year-before-last suit, and a hat that would have been +funny if it hadn't been so pathetic. I grabbed her by the shoulders, and +I held her off, and looked--looked at the wrinkles, and the sallow +complexion, and the coat with the sleeves in wrong, and the mashed hat (I +told you Lil used to be the village peach, didn't I?) and I says: + +"'For Gawd's sakes, Lil, does your husband beat you?' + +"'Steve!' she shrieks, 'beat me! You must be crazy!' + +"'Well, if he don't, he ought to. Those clothes are grounds for +divorce,' I says. + +"Mr. Guy Peel, it took me just four weeks to get wise to the fact that +the way to cure homesickness is to go home. I spent those four weeks +trying to revolutionize my sister-in-law's house, dress, kids, husband, +wall paper and parlor carpet. I took all the doilies from under the +ornaments and spoke my mind on the subject of the hand-painted lamp, and +Lil hates me for it yet, and will to her dying day. I fitted three +dresses for her, and made her get some corsets that she'll never wear. +They have roast pork for dinner on Sundays, and they never go to the +theater, and they like bread pudding, and they're happy. I wasn't. They +treated me fine, and it was home, all right, but not my home. It was the +same, but I was different. Eleven years away from anything makes it +shrink, if you know what I mean. I guess maybe you do. I remember that +I used to think that the Grand View Hotel was a regular little oriental +palace that was almost too luxurious to be respectable, and that the +traveling men who stopped there were gods, and just to prance past the +hotel after supper had the Atlantic City board walk looking like a back +alley on a rainy night. Well, everything had sort of shriveled up just +like that. The popcorn gave me indigestion, and I burned the skin off my +nose popping it. Kneading bread gave me the backache, and the blamed +stuff wouldn't raise right. I got so I was crazy to hear the roar of an +L train, and the sound of a crossing policeman's whistle. I got to +thinking how Michigan Avenue looks, downtown, with the lights shining +down on the asphalt, and all those people eating in the swell hotels, and +the autos, and the theater crowds and the windows, and--well, I'm back. +Glad I went? You said it. Because it made me so darned glad to get +back. I've found out one thing, and it's a great little lesson when you +get it learned. Most of us are where we are because we belong there, and +if we didn't, we wouldn't be. Say, that does sound mixed, don't it? But +it's straight. Now you tell yours." + +"I think you've said it all," began Guy Peel. "It's queer, isn't it, how +twelve years of America will spoil one for afternoon tea, and yew trees, +and tapestries, and lace caps, and roses. The mater was glad to see me, +but she said I smelled woolly. They think a Navajo blanket is a thing +the Indians wear on the war path, and they don't know whether Texas is a +state, or a mineral water. It was slow--slow. About the time they were +taking afternoon tea, I'd be reckoning how the boys would be rounding up +the cattle for the night, and about the time we'd sit down to dinner +something seemed to whisk the dinner table, and the flowers, and the men +and women in evening clothes right out of sight, like magic, and I could +see the boys stretched out in front of the bunk house after their supper +of bacon, and beans, and biscuit, and coffee. They'd be smoking their +pipes that smelled to Heaven, and further, and Wing would be squealing +one of his creepy old Chink songs out in the kitchen, and the sky would +be--say, Miss Meron, did you ever see the night sky, out West? Purple, +you know, and soft as soap-suds, and so near that you want to reach up +and touch it with your hand. Toward the end my mother used to take me +off in a corner and tell me that I hadn't spoken a word to the little +girl that I had taken in to dinner, and that if I couldn't forget my +uncouth western ways for an hour or two, at least, perhaps I'd better not +try to mingle with civilized people. I discovered that home isn't always +the place where you were born and bred. Home is the place where your +everyday clothes are, and where somebody, or something needs you. They +didn't need me over there in England. Lord no! I was sick for the sight +of a Navajo blanket. My shack's glowing with them. And my books needed +me, and the boys, and the critters, and Kate." + +"Kate?" repeated Miss Meron, quickly. + +"Kate's my horse. I'm going back on the 5:25 to-night. This is my +regular trip, you know. I came around here to buy a paper, because it +has become a habit. And then, too, I sort of felt--well, something told +me that you----" + +"You're a nice boy," said Miss Meron. "By the way, did I tell you that I +married the manager of the show the week after I got back? We go to +Bloomington to-night, and then we jump to St. Paul. I came around here +just as usual, because--well--because----" + +Tony's gift for remembering faces and facts amounts to genius. + +With two deft movements he whisked two papers from among the many in the +rack, and held them out. + +"Kewaskum Courier?" he suggested. + +"Nix," said Mercedes Meron, "I'll take a Chicago Scream." + +"London Times?" said Tony. + +"No," replied Guy Peel. "Give me the San Antonio Express." + + + + +X + +THE HOMELY HEROINE + +Millie Whitcomb, of the fancy goods and notions, beckoned me with her +finger. I had been standing at Kate O'Malley's counter, pretending to +admire her new basket-weave suitings, but in reality reveling in her +droll account of how, in the train coming up from Chicago, Mrs. Judge +Porterfield had worn the negro porter's coat over her chilly shoulders in +mistake for her husband's. Kate O'Malley can tell a funny story in a way +to make the after-dinner pleasantries of a Washington diplomat sound like +the clumsy jests told around the village grocery stove. + +"I wanted to tell you that I read that last story of yours," said Millie, +sociably, when I had strolled over to her counter, "and I liked it, all +but the heroine. She had an 'adorable throat' and hair that 'waved away +from her white brow,' and eyes that 'now were blue and now gray.' Say, +why don't you write a story about an ugly girl?" + +"My land!" protested I. "It's bad enough trying to make them accept my +stories as it is. That last heroine was a raving beauty, but she came +back eleven times before the editor of Blakely's succumbed to her charms." + +Millie's fingers were busy straightening the contents of a tray of combs +and imitation jet barrettes. Millie's fingers were not intended for that +task. They are slender, tapering fingers, pink-tipped and sensitive. + +"I should think," mused she, rubbing a cloudy piece of jet with a bit of +soft cloth, "that they'd welcome a homely one with relief. These +goddesses are so cloying." + +Millie Whitcomb's black hair is touched with soft mists of gray, and she +wears lavender shirtwaists and white stocks edged with lavender. There +is a Colonial air about her that has nothing to do with celluloid combs +and imitation jet barrettes. It breathes of dim old rooms, rich with the +tones of mahogany and old brass, and Millie in the midst of it, +gray-gowned, a soft white fichu crossed upon her breast. + +In our town the clerks are not the pert and gum-chewing young persons +that story-writers are wont to describe. The girls at Bascom's are +institutions. They know us all by our first names, and our lives are as +an open book to them. Kate O'Malley, who has been at Bascom's for so +many years that she is rumored to have stock in the company, may be said +to govern the fashions of our town. She is wont to say, when we express +a fancy for gray as the color of our new spring suit: + +"Oh, now, Nellie, don't get gray again. You had it year before last, and +don't you think it was just the least leetle bit trying? Let me show you +that green that came in yesterday. I said the minute I clapped my eyes +on it that it was just the color for you, with your brown hair and all." + +And we end by deciding on the green. + +The girls at Bascom's are not gossips--they are too busy for that--but +they may be said to be delightfully well informed. How could they be +otherwise when we go to Bascom's for our wedding dresses and party favors +and baby flannels? There is news at Bascom's that our daily paper never +hears of, and wouldn't dare print if it did. + +So when Millie Whitcomb, of the fancy goods and notions, expressed her +hunger for a homely heroine, I did not resent the suggestion. On the +contrary, it sent me home in thoughtful mood, for Millie Whitcomb has +acquired a knowledge of human nature in the dispensing of her fancy goods +and notions. It set me casting about for a really homely heroine. + +There never has been a really ugly heroine in fiction. Authors have +started bravely out to write of an unlovely woman, but they never have +had the courage to allow her to remain plain. On Page 237 she puts on a +black lace dress and red roses, and the combination brings out unexpected +tawny lights in her hair, and olive tints in her cheeks, and there she +is, the same old beautiful heroine. Even in the "Duchess" books one +finds the simple Irish girl, on donning a green corduroy gown cut square +at the neck, transformed into a wild-rose beauty, at sight of whom a +ball-room is hushed into admiring awe. There's the case of jane Eyre, +too. She is constantly described as plain and mouse-like, but there are +covert hints as to her gray eyes and slender figure and clear skin, and +we have a sneaking notion that she wasn't such a fright after all. + +Therefore, when I tell you that I am choosing Pearlie Schultz as my +leading lady you are to understand that she is ugly, not only when the +story opens, but to the bitter end. In the first place, Pearlie is fat. +Not, plump, or rounded, or dimpled, or deliciously curved, but FAT. She +bulges in all the wrong places, including her chin. (Sister, who has a +way of snooping over my desk in my absence, says that I may as well drop +this now, because nobody would ever read it, anyway, least of all any +sane editor. I protest when I discover that Sis has been over my papers. +It bothers me. But she says you have to do these things when you have a +genius in the house, and cites the case of Kipling's "Recessional," which +was rescued from the depths of his wastebasket by his wife.) + +Pearlie Schultz used to sit on the front porch summer evenings and watch +the couples stroll by, and weep in her heart. A fat girl with a fat +girl's soul is a comedy. But a fat girl with a thin girl's soul is a +tragedy. Pearlie, in spite of her two hundred pounds, had the soul of a +willow wand. + +The walk in front of Pearlie's house was guarded by a row of big trees +that cast kindly shadows. The strolling couples used to step gratefully +into the embrace of these shadows, and from them into other embraces. +Pearlie, sitting on the porch, could see them dimly, although they could +not see her. She could not help remarking that these strolling couples +were strangely lacking in sprightly conversation. Their remarks were but +fragmentary, disjointed affairs, spoken in low tones with a queer, +tremulous note in them. When they reached the deepest, blackest, +kindliest shadow, which fell just before the end of the row of trees, the +strolling couples almost always stopped, and then there came a quick +movement, and a little smothered cry from the girl, and then a sound, and +then a silence. Pearlie, sitting alone on the porch in the dark, +listened to these things and blushed furiously. Pearlie had never +strolled into the kindly shadows with a little beating of the heart, and +she had never been surprised with a quick arm about her and eager lips +pressed warmly against her own. + +In the daytime Pearlie worked as public stenographer at the Burke Hotel. +She rose at seven in the morning, and rolled for fifteen minutes, and lay +on her back and elevated her heels in the air, and stood stiff-kneed +while she touched the floor with her finger tips one hundred times, and +went without her breakfast. At the end of each month she usually found +that she weighed three pounds more than she had the month before. + +The folks at home never joked with Pearlie about her weight. Even one's +family has some respect for a life sorrow. Whenever Pearlie asked that +inevitable question of the fat woman: "Am I as fat as she is?" her +mother always answered: "You! Well, I should hope not! You're looking +real peaked lately, Pearlie. And your blue skirt just ripples in the +back, it's getting so big for you." + +Of such blessed stuff are mothers made. + +But if the gods had denied Pearlie all charms of face or form, they had +been decent enough to bestow on her one gift. Pearlie could cook like an +angel; no, better than an angel, for no angel could be a really clever +cook and wear those flowing kimono-like sleeves. They'd get into the +soup. Pearlie could take a piece of rump and some suet and an onion and +a cup or so of water, and evolve a pot roast that you could cut with a +fork. She could turn out a surprisingly good cake with surprisingly few +eggs, all covered with white icing, and bearing cunning little jelly +figures on its snowy bosom. She could beat up biscuits that fell apart +at the lightest pressure, revealing little pools of golden butter within. +Oh, Pearlie could cook! + +On week days Pearlie rattled the typewriter keys, but on Sundays she +shooed her mother out of the kitchen. Her mother went, protesting +faintly: + +"Now, Pearlie, don't fuss so for dinner. You ought to get your rest on +Sunday instead of stewing over a hot stove all morning." + +"Hot fiddlesticks, ma," Pearlie would say, cheerily. "It ain't hot, +because it's a gas stove. And I'll only get fat if I sit around. You +put on your black-and-white and go to church. Call me when you've got as +far as your corsets, and I'll puff your hair for you in the back." + +In her capacity of public stenographer at the Burke Hotel, it was +Pearlie's duty to take letters dictated by traveling men and beginning: +"Yours of the 10th at hand. In reply would say. . . ." or: "Enclosed +please find, etc." As clinching proof of her plainness it may be stated +that none of the traveling men, not even Max Baum, who was so fresh that +the girl at the cigar counter actually had to squelch him, ever called +Pearlie "baby doll," or tried to make a date with her. Not that Pearlie +would ever have allowed them to. But she never had had to reprove them. +During pauses in dictation she had a way of peering near-sightedly, over +her glasses at the dapper, well-dressed traveling salesman who was +rolling off the items on his sale bill. That is a trick which would make +the prettiest kind of a girl look owlish. + +On the night that Sam Miller strolled up to talk to her, Pearlie was +working late. She had promised to get out a long and intricate bill for +Max Baum, who travels for Kuhn and Klingman, so that he might take the +nine o'clock evening train. The irrepressible Max had departed with much +eclat and clatter, and Pearlie was preparing to go home when Sam +approached her. + +Sam had just come in from the Gayety Theater across the street, whither +he had gone in a vain search for amusement after supper. He had come +away in disgust. A soiled soubrette with orange-colored hair and baby +socks had swept her practiced eye over the audience, and, attracted by +Sam's good-looking blond head in the second row, had selected him as the +target of her song. She had run up to the extreme edge of the footlights +at the risk of teetering over, and had informed Sam through the medium of +song--to the huge delight of the audience, and to Sam's red-faced +discomfiture--that she liked his smile, and he was just her style, and +just as cute as he could be, and just the boy for her. On reaching the +chorus she had whipped out a small, round mirror and, assisted by the +calcium-light man in the rear, had thrown a wretched little spotlight on +Sam's head. + +Ordinarily, Sam would not have minded it. But that evening, in the vest +pocket just over the place where he supposed his heart to be reposed his +girl's daily letter. They were to be married on Sam's return to New York +from his first long trip. In the letter near his heart she had written +prettily and seriously about traveling men, and traveling men's wives, +and her little code for both. The fragrant, girlish, grave little letter +had caused Sam to sour on the efforts of the soiled soubrette. + +As soon as possible he had fled up the aisle and across the street to the +hotel writing-room. There he had spied Pearlie's good-humored, homely +face, and its contrast with the silly, red and-white countenance of the +unlaundered soubrette had attracted his homesick heart. + +Pearlie had taken some letters from him earlier in the day. Now, in his +hunger for companionship, he, strolled up to her desk, just as she was +putting her typewriter to bed. + +"Gee I This is a lonesome town!" said Sam, smiling down at her. + +Pearlie glanced up at him, over her glasses. "I guess you must be from +New York," she said. "I've heard a real New Yorker can get bored in +Paris. In New York the sky is bluer, and the grass is greener, and the +girls are prettier, and the steaks are thicker, and the buildings are +higher, and the streets are wider, and the air is finer, than the sky, or +the grass, or the girls, or the steaks, or the air of any place else in +the world. Ain't they?" + +"Oh, now," protested Sam, "quit kiddin' me! You'd be lonesome for the +little old town, too, if you'd been born and dragged up in it, and hadn't +seen it for four months." + +"New to the road, aren't you?" asked Pearlie. + +Sam blushed a little. "How did you know?" + +"Well, you generally can tell. They don't know what to do with +themselves evenings, and they look rebellious when they go into the +dining-room. The old-timers just look resigned." + +"You've picked up a thing or two around here, haven't you? I wonder if +the time will ever come when I'll look resigned to a hotel dinner, after +four months of 'em. Why, girl, I've got so I just eat the things that +are covered up--like baked potatoes in the shell, and soft boiled eggs, +and baked apples, and oranges that I can peel, and nuts." + +"Why, you poor kid," breathed Pearlie, her pale eyes fixed on him in +motherly pity. "You oughtn't to do that. You'll get so thin your girl +won't know you." + +Sam looked up quickly. "How in thunderation did you know----?" + +Pearlie was pinning on her hat, and she spoke succinctly, her hatpins +between her teeth: "You've been here two days now, and I notice you +dictate all your letters except the longest one, and you write that one +off in a corner of the writing-room all by yourself, with your cigar just +glowing like a live coal, and you squint up through the smoke, and grin +to yourself." + +"Say, would you mind if I walked home with you?" asked Sam. + +If Pearlie was surprised, she was woman enough not to show it. She +picked up her gloves and hand bag, locked her drawer with a click, and +smiled her acquiescence. And when Pearlie smiled she was awful. + +It was a glorious evening in the early summer, moonless, velvety, and +warm. As they strolled homeward, Sam told her all about the Girl, as is +the way of traveling men the world over. He told her about the tiny +apartment they had taken, and how he would be on the road only a couple +of years more, as this was just a try-out that the firm always insisted +on. And they stopped under an arc light while Sam showed her the picture +in his watch, as is also the way of traveling men since time immemorial. + +Pearlie made an excellent listener. He was so boyish, and so much in +love, and so pathetically eager to make good with the firm, and so happy +to have some one in whom to confide. + +"But it's a dog's life, after all," reflected Sam, again after the +fashion of all traveling men. "Any fellow on the road earns his salary +these days, you bet. I used to think it was all getting up when you felt +like it, and sitting in the big front window of the hotel, smoking a +cigar and watching the pretty girls go by. I wasn't wise to the packing, +and the unpacking, and the rotten train service, and the grouchy +customers, and the canceled bills, and the grub." + +Pearlie nodded understandingly. "A man told me once that twice a week +regularly he dreamed of the way his wife cooked noodle-soup." + +"My folks are German," explained Sam. "And my mother--can she cook! +Well, I just don't seem able to get her potato pancakes out of my mind. +And her roast beef tasted and looked like roast beef, and not like a wet +red flannel rag." + +At this moment Pearlie was seized with a brilliant idea. "To-morrow's +Sunday. You're going to Sunday here, aren't you? Come over and eat your +dinner with us. If you have forgotten the taste of real food, I can give +you a dinner that'll jog your memory." + +"Oh, really," protested Sam. "You're awfully good, but I couldn't think +of it. I----" + +"You needn't be afraid. I'm not letting you in for anything. I may be +homelier than an English suffragette, and I know my lines are all bumps, +but there's one thing you can't take away from me, and that's my cooking +hand. I can cook, boy, in a way to make your mother's Sunday dinner, +with company expected, look like Mrs. Newlywed's first attempt at 'riz' +biscuits. And I don't mean any disrespect to your mother when I say it. +I'm going to have noodle-soup, and fried chicken, and hot biscuits, and +creamed beans from our own garden, and strawberry shortcake with real----" + +"Hush!" shouted Sam. "If I ain't there, you'll know that I passed away +during the night, and you can telephone the clerk to break in my door." + +The Grim Reaper spared him, and Sam came, and was introduced to the +family, and ate. He put himself in a class with Dr. Johnson, and Ben +Brust, and Gargantua, only that his table manners were better. He almost +forgot to talk during the soup, and he came back three times for chicken, +and by the time the strawberry shortcake was half consumed he was looking +at Pearlie with a sort of awe in his eyes. + +That night he came over to say good-bye before taking his train out for +Ishpeming. He and Pearlie strolled down as far as the park and back +again. + +"I didn't eat any supper," said Sam. "It would have been sacrilege, +after that dinner of yours. Honestly, I don't know how to thank you, +being so good to a stranger like me. When I come back next trip, I +expect to have the Kid with me, and I want her to meet you, by George! +She's a winner and a pippin, but she wouldn't know whether a porterhouse +was stewed or frapped. I'll tell her about you, you bet. In the +meantime, if there's anything I can do for you, I'm yours to command." + +Pearlie turned to him suddenly. "You see that clump of thick shadows +ahead of us, where those big trees stand in front of our house?" + +"Sure," replied Sam. + +"Well, when we step into that deepest, blackest shadow, right in front of +our porch, I want you to reach up, and put your arm around me and kiss me +on the mouth, just once. And when you get back to New York you can tell +your girl I asked you to." + +There broke from him a little involuntary exclamation. It might have +been of pity, and it might have been of surprise. It had in it something +of both, but nothing of mirth. And as they stepped into the depths of +the soft black shadows he took off his smart straw sailor, which was so +different from the sailors that the boys in our town wear. And there was +in the gesture something of reverence. + + +Millie Whitcomb didn't like the story of the homely heroine, after all. +She says that a steady diet of such literary fare would give her blue +indigestion. Also she objects on the ground that no one got +married--that is, the heroine didn't. And she says that a heroine who +does not get married isn't a heroine at all. She thinks she prefers the +pink-cheeked, goddess kind, in the end. + + + + +XI + +SUN DRIED + +There come those times in the life of every woman when she feels that she +must wash her hair at once. And then she does it. The feeling may come +upon her suddenly, without warning, at any hour of the day or night; or +its approach may be slow and insidious, so that the victim does not at +first realize what it is that fills her with that sensation of unrest. +But once in the clutches of the idea she knows no happiness, no peace, +until she has donned a kimono, gathered up two bath towels, a spray, and +the green soap, and she breathes again only when, head dripping, she +makes for the back yard, the sitting-room radiator, or the side porch +(depending on her place of residence, and the time of year). + +Mary Louise was seized with the feeling at ten o'clock on a joyous June +morning. She tried to fight it off because she had got to that stage in +the construction of her story where her hero was beginning to talk and +act a little more like a real live man, and a little less like a clothing +store dummy. (By the way, they don't seem to be using those +pink-and-white, black-mustachioed figures any more. Another good simile +gone.) + +Mary Louise had been battling with that hero for a week. He wouldn't +make love to the heroine. In vain had Mary Louise striven to instill red +blood into his watery veins. He and the beauteous heroine were as far +apart as they had been on Page One of the typewritten manuscript. Mary +Louise was developing nerves over him. She had bitten her finger nails, +and twisted her hair into corkscrews over him. She had risen every +morning at the chaste hour of seven, breakfasted hurriedly, tidied the +tiny two-room apartment, and sat down in the unromantic morning light to +wrestle with her stick of a hero. She had made her heroine a creature of +grace, wit, and loveliness, but thus far the hero had not once clasped +her to him fiercely, or pressed his lips to her hair, her eyes, her +cheeks. Nay (as the story-writers would put it), he hadn't even devoured +her with his gaze. + +This morning, however, he had begun to show some signs of life. He was +developing possibilities. Whereupon, at this critical stage in the +story-writing game, the hair-washing mania seized Mary Louise. She tried +to dismiss the idea. She pushed it out of her mind, and slammed the +door. It only popped in again. Her fingers wandered to her hair. Her +eyes wandered to the June sunshine outside. The hero was left poised, +arms outstretched, and unquenchable love-light burning in his eyes, while +Mary Louise mused, thus: + +"It certainly feels sticky. It's been six weeks, at least. And I could +sit here-by the window--in the sun--and dry it----" + +With a jerk she brought her straying fingers away from her hair, and her +wandering eyes away from the sunshine, and her runaway thoughts back to +the typewritten page. For three minutes the snap of the little disks +crackled through the stillness of the tiny apartment. Then, suddenly, as +though succumbing to an irresistible force, Mary Louise rose, walked +across the room (a matter of six steps), removing hairpins as she went, +and shoved aside the screen which hid the stationary wash-bowl by day. + +Mary Louise turned on a faucet and held her finger under it, while an +agonized expression of doubt and suspense overspread her features. +Slowly the look of suspense gave way to a smile of beatific content. A +sigh--deep, soul-filling, satisfied--welled up from Mary Louise's breast. +The water was hot. + +Half an hour later, head swathed turban fashion in a towel, Mary Louise +strolled over to the window. Then she stopped, aghast. In that half +hour the sun had slipped just around the corner, and was now beating +brightly and uselessly against the brick wall a few inches away. Slowly +Mary Louise unwound the towel, bent double in the contortionistic +attitude that women assume on such occasions, and watched with melancholy +eyes while the drops trickled down to the ends of her hair, and fell, +unsunned, to the floor. + +"If only," thought Mary Louise, bitterly, "there was such a thing as a +back yard in this city--a back yard where I could squat on the grass, in +the sunshine and the breeze---- Maybe there is. I'll ask the janitor." + +She bound her hair in the turban again, and opened the door. At the far +end of the long, dim hallway Charlie, the janitor, was doing something to +the floor with a mop and a great deal of sloppy water, whistling the +while with a shrill abandon that had announced his presence to Mary +Louise. + +"Oh, Charlie!" called Mary Louise. "Charlee! Can you come here just a +minute?" + +"You bet!" answered Charlie, with the accent on the you; and came. + +"Charlie, is there a back yard, or something, where the sun is, you +know--some nice, grassy place where I can sit, and dry my hair, and let +the breezes blow it?" + +"Back yard!" grinned Charlie. "I guess you're new to N' York, all right, +with ground costin' a million or so a foot. Not much they ain't no back +yard, unless you'd give that name to an ash-barrel, and a dump heap or +so, and a crop of tin cans. I wouldn't invite a goat to set in it." + +Disappointment curved Mary Louise's mouth. It was a lovely enough mouth +at any time, but when it curved in disappointment--ell, janitors are but +human, after all. + +"Tell you what, though," said Charlie. "I'll let you up on the roof. It +ain't long on grassy spots up there, but say, breeze! Like a summer +resort. On a clear day you can see way over 's far 's Eight' Avenoo. +Only for the love of Mike don't blab it to the other women folks in the +buildin', or I'll have the whole works of 'em usin' the roof for a +general sun, massage, an' beauty parlor. Come on." + +"I'll never breathe it to a soul," promised Mary Louise, solemnly. "Oh, +wait a minute." + +She turned back into her room, appearing again in a moment with something +green in her hand. + +"What's that?" asked Charlie, suspiciously. + +Mary Louise, speeding down the narrow hallway after Charlie, blushed a +little. "It--it's parsley," she faltered. + +"Parsley!" exploded Charlie. "Well, what the----" + +"Well, you see. I'm from the country," explained Mary Louise, "and in +the country, at this time of year, when you dry your hair in the back +yard, you get the most wonderful scent of green and growing things--not +only of flowers, you know, but of the new things just coming up in the +vegetable garden, and--and--well, this parsley happens to be the only +really gardeny thing I have, so I thought I'd bring it along and sniff it +once in a while, and make believe it's the country, up there on the roof." + +Half-way up the perilous little flight of stairs that led to the roof, +Charlie, the janitor, turned to gaze down at Mary Louise, who was just +behind, and keeping fearfully out of the way of Charlie's heels. + +"Wimmin," observed Charlie, the janitor, "is nothin' but little girls in +long skirts, and their hair done up." + +"I know it," giggled Mary Louise, and sprang up on the roof, looking, +with her towel-swathed head, like a lady Aladdin leaping from her +underground grotto. + +The two stood there a moment, looking up at the blue sky, and all about +at the June sunshine. + +"If you go up high enough," observed Mary Louise, "the sunshine is almost +the same as it is in the country, isn't it?" + +"I shouldn't wonder," said Charlie, "though Calvary cemetery is about as +near's I'll ever get to the country. Say, you can set here on this soap +box and let your feet hang down. The last janitor's wife used to hang +her washin' up here, I guess. I'll leave this door open, see?" + +"You're so kind," smiled Mary Louise. + +"Kin you blame me?" retorted the gallant Charles. And vanished. + +Mary Louise, perched on the soap box, unwound her turban, draped the damp +towel over her shoulders, and shook out the wet masses of her hair. Now +the average girl shaking out the wet masses of her hair looks like a +drowned rat. But Nature had been kind to Mary Louise. She had given her +hair that curled in little ringlets when wet, and that waved in all the +right places when dry. + +Just now it hung in damp, shining strands on either side of her face, so +that she looked most remarkably like one of those oval-faced, great-eyed, +red-lipped women that the old Italian artists were so fond of painting. + +Below her, blazing in the sun, lay the great stone and iron city. Mary +Louise shook out her hair idly, with one hand, sniffed her parsley, shut +her eyes, threw back her head, and began to sing, beating time with her +heel against the soap box, and forgetting all about the letter that had +come that morning, stating that it was not from any lack of merit, etc. +She sang, and sniffed her parsley, and waggled her hair in the breeze, +and beat time, idly, with the heel of her little boot, when---- + +"Holy Cats!" exclaimed a man's voice. "What is this, anyway? A Coney +Island concession gone wrong?" + +Mary Louise's eyes unclosed in a flash, and Mary Louise gazed upon an +irate-looking, youngish man, who wore shabby slippers, and no collar with +a full dress air. + +"I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter," growled the +collarless man. + +"Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Are you the +scrub-lady's stalwart son?" + +"Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike with their hair +down. I ask your pardon, though." + +"Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all men look like +picked chickens with their collars off." + +At that the collarless man, who until now had been standing on the top +step that led up to the roof, came slowly forward, stepped languidly over +a skylight or two, draped his handkerchief over a convenient chimney and +sat down, hugging his long, lean legs to him. + +"Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked. + +"It was," said Mary Louise. + +"Ha!" exploded he, again. Then, "Where's your mirror?" he demanded. + +"Mirror?" echoed Mary Louise. + +"Certainly. You have the hair, the comb, the attitude, and the general +Lorelei effect. Also your singing lured me to your shores." + +"You didn't look lured," retorted Mary Louise. "You looked lurid." + +"What's that stuff in your hand?" next demanded he. He really was a most +astonishingly rude young man. + +"Parsley." + +"Parsley!" shouted he, much as Charlie had done. "Well, what the----" + +"Back home," elucidated Mary Louise once more, patiently, "after you've +washed your hair you dry it in the back yard, sitting on the grass, in +the sunshine and the breeze. And the garden smells come to you--the +nasturtiums, and the pansies, and the geraniums, you know, and even that +clean grass smell, and the pungent vegetable odor, and there are ants, +and bees, and butterflies----" + +"Go on," urged the young man, eagerly. + +"And Mrs. Next Door comes out to hang up a few stockings, and a jabot or +so, and a couple of baby dresses that she has just rubbed through, and +she calls out to you: + +"'Washed your hair?' + +"'Yes,' you say. 'It was something awful, and I wanted it nice for +Tuesday night. But I suppose I won't be able to do a thing with it.' + +"And then Mrs. Next Door stands there a minute on the clothes-reel +platform, with the wind whipping her skirts about her, and the fresh +smell of the growing things coming to her. And suddenly she says: 'I +guess I'll wash mine too, while the baby's asleep.'" + +The collarless young man rose from his chimney, picked up his +handkerchief, and moved to the chimney just next to Mary Louise's soap +box. + +"Live here?" he asked, in his impolite way. + +"If I did not, do you think that I would choose this as the one spot in +all New York in which to dry my hair?" + +"When I said, 'Live here,' I didn't mean just that. I meant who are you, +and why are you here, and where do you come from, and do you sign your +real name to your stuff, or use a nom de plume?" + +"Why--how did you know?" gasped Mary Louise. + +"Give me five minutes more," grinned the keen-eyed young man, "and I'll +tell you what make your typewriter is, and where the last rejection slip +came from." + +"Oh!" said Mary Louise again. "Then you are the scrub-lady's stalwart +son, and you've been ransacking my waste-basket." + +Quite unheeding, the collarless man went on, "And so you thought you +could write, and you came on to New York (you know one doesn't just +travel to New York, or ride to it, or come to it; one 'comes on' to New +York), and now you're not so sure about the writing, h'm? And back home +what did you do?" + +"Back home I taught school--and hated it. But I kept on teaching until +I'd saved five hundred dollars. Every other school ma'am in the world +teaches until she has saved five hundred dollars, and then she packs two +suit-cases, and goes to Europe from June until September. But I saved my +five hundred for New York. I've been here six months now, and the five +hundred has shrunk to almost nothing, and if I don't break into the +magazines pretty soon----" + +"Then?" + +"Then," said Mary Louise, with a quaver in her voice, "I'll have to go +back and teach thirty-seven young devils that six times five is thirty, +put down the naught and carry six, and that the French are a gay people, +fond of dancing and light wines. But I'll scrimp on everything from +hairpins to shoes, and back again, including pretty collars, and gloves, +and hats, until I've saved up another five hundred, and then I'll try it +all over again, because I--can--write." + +From the depths of one capacious pocket the inquiring man took a small +black pipe, from another a bag of tobacco, from another a match. The +long, deft fingers made a brief task of it. + +"I didn't ask you," he said, after the first puff, "because I could see +that you weren't the fool kind that objects." Then, with amazing +suddenness, "Know any of the editors?" + +"Know them!" cried Mary Louise. "Know them! If camping on their +doorsteps, and haunting the office buildings, and cajoling, and fighting +with secretaries and office boys, and assistants and things constitutes +knowing them, then we're chums." + +"What makes you think you can write?" sneered the thin man. + +Mary Louise gathered up her brush, and comb, and towel, and parsley, and +jumped off the soap box. She pointed belligerently at her tormentor with +the hand that held the brush. + +"Being the scrub-lady's stalwart son, you wouldn't understand. But I can +write. I sha'n't go under. I'm going to make this town count me in as +the four million and oneth. Sometimes I get so tired of being nobody at +all, with not even enough cleverness in me to wrest a living from this +big city, that I long to stand out at the edge of the curbing, and take +off my hat, and wave it, and shout, 'Say, you four million uncaring +people, I'm Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, and I like your +town, and I want to stay here. Won't you please pay some slight +attention to me. No one knows I'm here except myself, and the rent +collector.'" + +"And I," put in the rude young man. + +"O, you," sneered Mary Louise, equally rude, "you don't count." + +The collarless young man in the shabby slippers smiled a curious little +twisted smile. "You never can tell," he grinned, "I might." Then, quite +suddenly, he stood up, knocked the ash out of his pipe, and came over to +Mary Louise, who was preparing to descend the steep little flight of +stairs. + +"Look here, Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, you stop trying to +write the slop you're writing now. Stop it. Drop the love tales that +are like the stuff that everybody else writes. Stop trying to write +about New York. You don't know anything about it. Listen. You get back +to work, and write about Mrs. Next Door, and the hair-washing, and the +vegetable garden, and bees, and the back yard, understand? You write the +way you talked to me, and then you send your stuff in to Cecil Reeves." + +"Reeves!" mocked Mary Louise. "Cecil Reeves, of The Earth? He wouldn't +dream of looking at my stuff. And anyway, it really isn't your affair." +And began to descend the stairs. + +"Well, you know you brought me up here, kicking with your heels, and +singing at the top of your voice. I couldn't work. So it's really your +fault." Then, just as Mary Louise had almost disappeared down the +stairway he put his last astonishing question. + +"How often do you wash your hair?" he demanded. + +"Well, back home," confessed Mary Louise, "every six weeks or so was +enough, but----" + +"Not here," put in the rude young man, briskly. "Never. That's all very +well for the country, but it won't do in the city. Once a week, at +least, and on the roof. Cleanliness demands it." + +"But if I'm going back to the country," replied Mary Louise, "it won't be +necessary." + +"But you're not," calmly said the collarless young man, just as Mary +Louise vanished from sight. + +Down at the other end of the hallway on Mary Louise's floor Charlie, the +janitor, was doing something to the windows now, with a rag, and a pail +of water. + +"Get it dry?" he called out, sociably. + +"Yes, thank you," answered Mary Louise, and turned to enter her own +little apartment. Then, hesitatingly, she came back to Charlie's window. + +"There--there was a man up there--a very tall, very thin, very rude, +very--that is, rather nice youngish oldish man, in slippers, and no +collar. I wonder----" + +"Oh, him!" snorted Charlie. "He don't show himself onct in a blue moon. +None of the other tenants knows he's up there. Has the whole top floor +to himself, and shuts himself up there for weeks at a time, writin' +books, or some such truck. That guy, he owns the building." + +"Owns the building!" said Mary Louise, faintly. "Why he looked--he +looked----" + +"Sure," grinned Charlie. "That's him. Name's Reeves--Cecil Reeves. +Say, ain't that a divil of a name?" + + + + +XII + +WHERE THE CAR TURNS AT 18TH + +This will be a homing pigeon story. Though I send it ever so far--though +its destination be the office of a home-and-fireside magazine or one of +the kind with a French story in the back, it will return to me. After +each flight its feathers will be a little more rumpled, its wings more +weary, its course more wavering, until, battered, spent, broken, it will +flutter to rest in the waste basket. + +And yet, though its message may never be delivered, it must be sent, +because--well, because---- + +You know where the car turns at Eighteenth? There you see a glaringly +attractive billboard poster. It depicts groups of smiling, white-clad +men standing on tropical shores, with waving palms overhead, and a +glimpse of blue sea in the distance. The wording beneath the picture +runs something like this: + +"Young men wanted. An unusual opportunity for travel, education, and +advancement. Good pay. No expenses." + +When the car turns at Eighteenth, and I see that, I remember Eddie +Houghton back home. And when I remember Eddie Houghton I see red. + +The day after Eddie Houghton finished high school he went to work. In +our town we don't take a job. We accept a position. Our paper had it +that "Edwin Houghton had accepted a position as clerk and assistant +chemist at the Kunz drugstore, where he would take up his new duties +Monday." + +His new duties seemed, at first, to consist of opening the store in the +morning, sweeping out, and whizzing about town on a bicycle with an +unnecessarily insistent bell, delivering prescriptions which had been +telephoned for. But by the time the summer had really set in Eddie was +installed back of the soda fountain. + +There never was anything better looking than Eddie Houghton in his white +duck coat. He was one of those misleadingly gold and pink and white men. +I say misleadingly because you usually associate pink-and-whiteness with +such words as sissy and mollycoddle. Eddie was neither. He had played +quarter-back every year from his freshman year, and he could putt the +shot and cut classes with the best of 'em. But in that white duck coat +with the braiding and frogs he had any musical-comedy, white-flannel +tenor lieutenant whose duty it is to march down to the edge of the +footlights, snatch out his sword, and warble about his country's flag, +looking like a flat-nosed, blue-gummed Igorrote. Kunz's soda water +receipts swelled to double their usual size, and the girls' complexions +were something awful that summer. I've known Nellie Donovan to take as +many as three ice cream sodas and two phosphates a day when Eddie was +mixing. He had a way of throwing in a good-natured smile, and an easy +flow of conversation with every drink. While indulging in a little airy +persiflage the girls had a great little trick of pursing their mouths +into rosebud shapes over their soda straws, and casting their eyes upward +at Eddie. They all knew the trick, and its value, so that at night +Eddie's dreams were haunted by whole rows of rosily pursed lips, and seas +of upturned, adoring eyes. Of course we all noticed that on those rare +occasions when Josie Morehouse came into Kunz's her glass was heaped +higher with ice cream than that of any of the other girls, and that +Eddie's usually easy flow of talk was interspersed with certain +stammerings and stutterings. But Josie didn't come in often. She had a +lot of dignity for a girl of eighteen. Besides, she was taking the +teachers' examinations that summer, when the other girls were playing +tennis and drinking sodas. + +Eddie really hated the soda water end of the business, as every soda +clerk in the world does. But he went about it good-naturedly. He really +wanted to learn the drug business, but the boss knew he had a drawing +card, and insisted that Eddie go right on concocting faerie queens and +strawberry sundaes, and nectars and Kunz's specials. One Saturday, when +he happened to have on hand an over-supply of bananas that would have +spoiled over Sunday, he invented a mess and called it the Eddie Extra, +and the girls swarmed on it like flies around a honey pot. + +That kind of thing would have spoiled most boys. But Eddie had a +sensible mother. On those nights when he used to come home nauseated +with dealing out chop suey sundaes and orangeades, and saying that there +was no future for a fellow in our dead little hole, his mother would give +him something rather special for supper, and set him hoeing and watering +the garden. + +So Eddie stuck to his job, and waited, and all the time he was saying, +with a melting look, to the last silly little girl who was drinking her +third soda, "Somebody looks mighty sweet in pink to-day," or while he was +doping to-morrow's ball game with one of the boys who dropped in for a +cigar, he was thinking of bigger things, and longing for a man-size job. + +The man-size job loomed up before Eddie's dazzled eyes when he least +expected it. It was at the close of a particularly hot day when it +seemed to Eddie that every one in town had had everything from birch beer +to peach ice cream. On his way home to supper he stopped at the +postoffice with a handful of letters that old man Kunz had given him to +mail. His mother had told him that they would have corn out of their own +garden for supper that night, and Eddie was in something of a hurry. He +and his mother were great pals. + +In one corner of the dim little postoffice lobby a man was busily tacking +up posters. The whitewashed walls bloomed with them. They were gay, +attractive-looking posters, done in red and blue and green, and after +Eddie had dumped his mail into the slot, and had called out, "Hello, +Jake!" to the stamp clerk, whose back was turned to the window, he +strolled idly over to where the man was putting the finishing touches to +his work. The man was dressed in a sailor suit of blue, with a +picturesque silk scarf knotted at his hairy chest. He went right on +tacking posters. + +They certainly were attractive pictures. Some showed groups of stalwart, +immaculately clad young gods lolling indolently on tropical shores, with +a splendor of palms overhead, and a sparkling blue sea in the distance. +Others depicted a group of white-clad men wading knee-deep in the surf as +they laughingly landed a cutter on the sandy beach. There was a +particularly fascinating one showing two barefooted young chaps on a +wave-swept raft engaged in that delightfully perilous task known as +signaling. Another showed the keen-eyed gunners busy about the big guns. + +Eddie studied them all. + +The man finished his task and looked up, quite casually. + +"Hello, kid," he said. + +"Hello," answered Eddie. Then--"That's some picture gallery you're +giving us." + +The man in the sailor suit fell back a pace or two and surveyed his work +with a critical but satisfied eye. + +"Pitchers," he said, "don't do it justice. We've opened a recruiting +office here. Looking for young men with brains, and muscle, and +ambition. It's a great chance. We don't get to these here little towns +much." + +He placed a handbill in Eddie's hand. Eddie glanced down at it +sheepishly. + +"I've heard," he said, "that it's a hard life." + +The man in the sailor suit threw back his head and laughed, displaying a +great deal of hairy throat and chest. "Hard!" he jeered, and slapped one +of the gay-colored posters with the back of his hand. "You see that! +Well, it ain't a bit exaggerated. Not a bit. I ought to know. It's the +only life for a young man, especially for a guy in a little town. +There's no chance here for a bright young man, and if he goes to the +city, what does he get? The city's jam full of kids that flock there in +the spring and fall, looking for jobs, and thinking the city's sittin' up +waitin' for 'em. And where do they land? In the dime lodging houses, +that's where. In the navy you see the world, and it don't cost you a +cent. A guy is a fool to bury himself alive in a hole like this. You +could be seeing the world, traveling by sea from port to port, from +country to country, from ocean to ocean, amid ever-changing scenery and +climatic conditions, to see and study the habits and conditions of the +strange races----" + +It rolled off his tongue with fascinating glibness. Eddie glanced at the +folder in his hand. + +"I always did like the water," he said. + +"Sure," agreed the hairy man, heartily. "What young feller don't? I'll +tell you what. Come on over to the office with me and I'll show you some +real stuff." + +"It's my supper time," hesitated Eddie. "I guess I'd better not----" + +"Oh, supper," laughed the man. "You come on and have supper with me, +kid." + +Eddie's pink cheeks went three shades pinker. "Gee! That'd be great. +But my mother--that is--she----" + +The man in the sailor suit laughed again--a laugh with a sting in it. "A +great big feller like you ain't tied to your ma's apron strings are you?" + +"Not much I'm not!" retorted Eddie. "I'll telephone her when I get to +your hotel, that's what I'll do." + +But they were such fascinating things, those new booklets, and the man +had such marvelous tales to tell, that Eddie forgot trifles like supper +and waiting mothers. There were pictures taken on board ship, showing +frolics, and ball games, and minstrel shows and glee clubs, and the men +at mess, and each sailor sleeping snug as a bug in his hammock. There +were other pictures showing foreign scenes and strange ports. Eddie's +tea grew cold, and his apple pie and cheese lay untasted on his plate. + +"Now me," said the recruiting officer, "I'm a married man. But my wife, +she wouldn't have it no other way. No, sir! She'll be in the navy +herself, I'll bet, when women vote. Why, before I joined the navy I +didn't know whether Guam was a vegetable or an island, and Culebra wasn't +in my geography. Now? Why, now I'm as much at home in Porto Rico as I +am in San Francisco. I'm as well acquainted in Valparaiso as I am in +Vermont, and I've run around Cairo, Egypt, until I know it better than +Cairo, Illinois. It's the only way to see the world. You travel by sea +from port to port, from country to country, from ocean to ocean, amid +ever-changing scenery and climatic conditions, to see and study the----" + +And Eddie forgot that it was Wednesday night, which was the prescription +clerk's night off; forgot that the boss was awaiting his return that he +might go home to his own supper; forgot his mother, and her little treat +of green corn out of the garden; forgot everything in the wonder of this +man's tales of people and scenes such as he never dreamed could exist +outside of a Jack London story. Now and then Eddie interrupted with a, +"Yes, but----" that grew more and more infrequent, until finally they +ceased altogether. Eddie's man-size job had come. + +When we heard the news we all dropped in at the drug store to joke with +him about it. We had a good deal to say about rolling gaits, and +bell-shaped trousers, and anchors and sea serpents tattooed on the arm. +One of the boys scored a hit by slapping his dime down on the soda +fountain marble and bellowing for rum and salt horse. Some one started +to tease the little Morehouse girl about sailors having sweethearts in +every port, but when they saw the look in her eyes they changed their +mind, and stopped. It's funny how a girl of twenty is a woman, when a +man of twenty is a boy. + +Eddie dished out the last of his chocolate ice cream sodas and cherry +phosphates and root beers, while the girls laughingly begged him to bring +them back kimonos from China, and scarves from the Orient, and Eddie +promised, laughing, too, but with a far-off, eager look in his eyes. + +When the time came for him to go there was quite a little bodyguard of us +ready to escort him down to the depot. We picked up two or three more +outside O'Rourke's pool room, and a couple more from the benches outside +the hotel. Eddie walked ahead with his mother. I have said that Mrs. +Houghton was a sensible woman. She was never more so than now. Any +other mother would have gone into hysterics and begged the recruiting +officer to let her boy off. But she knew better. Still, I think Eddie +felt some uncomfortable pangs when he looked at her set face. On the way +to the depot we had to pass the Agassiz School, where Josie Morehouse was +substituting second reader for the Wilson girl, who was sick. She was +standing in the window as we passed. Eddie took off his cap and waved to +her, and she returned the wave as well as she could without having the +children see her. That would never have done, seeing that she was the +teacher, and substituting at that. But when we turned the corner we +noticed that she was still standing at the window and leaning out just a +bit, even at the risk of being indiscreet. + +When the 10:15 pulled out Eddie stood on the bottom step, with his cap +off, looking I can't tell you how boyish, and straight, and clean, and +handsome, with his lips parted, and his eyes very bright. The +hairy-chested recruiting officer stood just beside him, and suffered by +contrast. There was a bedlam of good-byes, and last messages, and +good-natured badinage, but Eddie's mother's eyes never left his face +until the train disappeared around the curve in the track. + +Well, they got a new boy at Kunz's--a sandy-haired youth, with pimples, +and no knack at mixing, and we got out of the habit of dropping in there, +although those fall months were unusually warm. + +It wasn't long before we began to get postcards--pictures of the naval +training station, and the gymnasium, and of model camps and of drills, +and of Eddie in his uniform. His mother insisted on calling it his +sailor suit, as though he were a little boy. One day Josie Morehouse +came over to Mrs. Houghton's with a group picture in her hand. She +handed it to Eddie's mother without comment. Mrs. Houghton looked at it +eagerly, her eye selecting her own boy from the group as unerringly as a +mother bird finds her nest in the forest. + +"Oh, Eddie's better looking than that!" she cried, with a tremulous +little laugh. "How funny those pants make them look, don't they? And +his mouth isn't that way, at all. Eddie always had the sweetest mouth, +from the time he was a baby. Let's see some of these other boys. +Why--why----" + +Then she fell silent, scanning those other faces. Presently Josie bent +over her and looked too, and the brows of both women knitted in +perplexity. They looked for a long, long minute, and the longer they +looked the more noticeable became the cluster of fine little wrinkles +that had begun to form about Mrs. Houghton's eyes. + +When finally they looked up it was to gaze at one another questioningly. + +"Those other boys," faltered Eddie's mother, "they--they don't look like +Eddie, do they? I mean----" + +"No, they don't," agreed Josie. "They look older, and they have such +queer-looking eyes, and jaws, and foreheads. But then," she finished, +with mock cheerfulness, "you can never tell in those silly kodak +pictures." + +Eddie's mother studied the card again, and sighed gently. "I hope," she +said, "that Eddie won't get into bad company." + +After that our postal cards ceased. I wish that there was some way of +telling this story so that the end wouldn't come in the middle. But +there is none. In our town we know the news before the paper comes out, +and we only read it to verify what we have heard. So that long before +the paper came out in the middle of the afternoon we had been horrified +by the news of Eddie Houghton's desertion and suicide. We stopped one +another on Main Street to talk about it, and recall how boyish and +handsome he had looked in his white duck coat, and on that last day just +as the 10:15 pulled out. "It don't seem hardly possible, does it?" we +demanded of each other. + +But when Eddie's mother brought out the letters that had come after our +postal cards had ceased, we understood. And when they brought him home, +and we saw him for the last time, all those of us who had gone to school +with him, and to dances, and sleigh rides, and hayrack parties, and +picnics, and when we saw the look on his face--the look of one who, +walking in a sunny path has stumbled upon something horrible and +unclean--we forgave him his neglect of us, we forgave him desertion, +forgave him the taking of his own life, forgave him the look that he had +brought into his mother's eyes. + +There had never been anything extraordinary about Eddie Houghton. He had +had his faults and virtues, and good and bad sides just like other boys +of his age. He--oh, I am using too many words, when one slang phrase +will express it. Eddie had been just a nice young kid. I think the +worst thing he had ever said was "Damn!" perhaps. If he had sworn, it +was with clean oaths, calculated to relieve the mind and feelings. + +But the men that he shipped with during that year or more--I am sure that +he had never dreamed that such men were. He had never stood on the +curbing outside a recruiting office on South State Street, in the old +levee district, and watched that tragic panorama move by--those nightmare +faces, drink-marred, vice-scarred, ruined. + +I know that he had never seen such faces in all his clean, hard-working +young boy's life, spent in our prosperous little country town. I am +certain that he had never heard such words as came from the lips of his +fellow seamen--great mouth-filling, soul-searing words--words unclean, +nauseating, unspeakable, and yet spoken. + +I don't say that Eddie Houghton had not taken his drink now and then. +There were certain dark rumors in our town to the effect that favored +ones who dropped into Kunz's more often than seemed needful were +privileged to have a thimbleful of something choice in the prescription +room, back of the partition at the rear of the drug store. But that was +the most devilish thing that Eddie had ever done. + +I don't say that all crews are like that one. Perhaps he was unfortunate +in falling in with that one. But it was an Eastern trip, and every port +was a Port Said. Eddie Houghton's thoughts were not these men's +thoughts; his actions were not their actions, his practices were not +their practices. To Eddie Houghton, a Chinese woman in a sampan on the +water front at Shanghai was something picturesque; something about which +to write home to his mother and to Josie. To those other men she was +possible prey. + +Those other men saw that he was different, and they pestered him. They +ill-treated him when they could, and made his life a hellish thing. Men +do those things, and people do not speak of it. + +I don't know all the things that he suffered. But in his mind, day by +day, grew the great, overwhelming desire to get away from it all--from +this horrible life that was such a dreadful mistake. I think that during +the long night watches his mind was filled with thoughts of our decent +little town--of his mother's kitchen, with its Wednesday and Saturday +scent of new-made bread--of the shady front porch, with its purple +clematis--of the smooth front yard which it was his Saturday duty to mow +that it might be trim and sightly for Sunday--of the boys and girls who +used to drop in at the drug store--those clear-eyed, innocently +coquettish, giggling, blushing girls in their middy blouses and white +skirts, their slender arms and throats browned from tennis and boating, +their eyes smiling into his as they sat perched at the fountain after a +hot set of tennis--those slim, clean young boys, sun-browned, laughing, +their talk all of swimming, and boating, and tennis, and girls. + +He did not realize that it was desertion--that thought that grew and grew +in his mind. In it there was nothing of faithlessness to his country. +He was only trying to be true to himself, and to the things that his +mother had taught him. He only knew that he was deadly sick of these +sights of disease, and vice. He only knew that he wanted to get +away--back to his own decent life with the decent people to whom he +belonged. And he went. He went, as a child runs home when it had +tripped and fallen in the mud, not dreaming of wrong-doing or punishment. + +The first few hundred miles on the train were a dream. But finally Eddie +found himself talking to a man--a big, lean, blue-eyed western man, who +regarded Eddie with kindly, puzzled eyes. Eddie found himself telling +his story in a disjointed, breathless sort of way. When he had finished +the man uncrossed his long lean legs, took his pipe out of his mouth, and +sat up. There was something of horror in his eyes as he sat, looking at +Eddie. + +"Why, kid," he said, at last. "You're deserting! You'll get the pen, +don't you know that, if they catch you? Where you going?" + +"Going!" repeated Eddie. "Going! Why, I'm going home, of course." + +"Then I don't see what you're gaining," said the man, "because they'll +sure get you there." + +Eddie sat staring at the man for a dreadful minute. In that minute the +last of his glorious youth, and ambition, and zest of life departed from +him. + +He got off the train at the next town, and the western man offered him +some money, which Eddie declined with all his old-time sweetness of +manner. It was rather a large town, with a great many busy people in it. +Eddie went to a cheap hotel, and took a room, and sat on the edge of the +thin little bed and stared at the carpet. It was a dusty red carpet. In +front of the bureau many feet had worn a hole, so that the bare boards +showed through, with a tuft of ragged red fringe edging them. Eddie +Houghton sat and stared at the worn place with a curiously blank look on +his face. He sat and stared and saw many things. He saw his mother, for +one thing, sitting on the porch with a gingham apron over her light +dress, waiting for him to come home to supper; he saw his own room--a +typical boy's room, with camera pictures and blue prints stuck in the +sides of the dresser mirror, and the boxing gloves on the wall, and his +tennis racquet with one string broken (he had always meant to have that +racquet re-strung) and his track shoes, relics of high school days, flung +in one corner, and his gay-colored school pennants draped to form a +fresco, and the cushion that Josie Morenouse had made for him two years +ago, at Christmas time, and the dainty white bedspread that he, fussed +about because he said it was too sissy for a boy's room--oh, I can't tell +you what he saw as he sat and stared at that worn place in the carpet. +But pretty soon it began to grow dark, and at last he rose, keeping his +fascinated eyes still on the bare spot, walked to the door, opened it, +and backed out queerly, still keeping his eyes on the spot. + +He was back again in fifteen minutes, with a bottle in his hand. He +should have known better than to choose carbolic, being a druggist, but +all men are a little mad at such times. He lay down at the edge of the +thin little bed that was little more than a pallet, and he turned his +face toward the bare spot that could just be seen in the gathering gloom. +And when he raised the bottle to his lips the old-time sweetness of his +smile illumined his face. + +Where the car turns at Eighteenth Street there is a big, glaring +billboard poster, showing a group of stalwart young men in white ducks +lolling on shores, of tropical splendor, with palms waving overhead, and +a glimpse of blue sea in the distance. The wording beneath it runs +something like this: + +"Young men wanted. An unusual opportunity for travel, education and +advancement. Good pay. No expenses." + +When I see that sign I think of Eddie Houghton back home. And when I +think of Eddie Houghton I see red. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Buttered Side Down, by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUTTERED SIDE DOWN *** + +***** This file should be named 352.txt or 352.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/352/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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After the glamour had worn off, and the glass +slippers were worn out, did the Prince never find Cinderella's +manner redolent of the kitchen hearth; and was it never necessary +that he remind her to be more careful of her finger-nails and +grammar? After Puss in Boots had won wealth and a wife for his +young master did not that gentleman often fume with chagrin because +the neighbors, perhaps, refused to call on the lady of the former +poor miller's son? + +It is a great risk to take with one's book-children. These +stories make no such promises. They stop just short of the phrase +of the old story writers, and end truthfully, thus: And so they +lived. + +E. F. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + +I. THE FROG AND THE PUDDLE +II. THE MAN WHO CAME BACK +III. WHAT SHE WORE +IV. A BUSH LEAGUE HERO +V. THE KITCHEN SIDE OF THE DOOR +VI. ONE OF THE OLD GIRLS +VI. MAYMEYS FROM CUBA +VIII. THE LEADING LADY +IX. THAT HOME-TOWN FEELING +X. THE HOMELY HEROINE +XI. SUN DRIED +XII. WHERE THE CAR TURNS AT 18TH + + + + +BUTTERED SIDE DOWN + + + + +I + + +THE FROG AND THE PUDDLE + + +Any one who has ever written for the magazines (nobody could +devise a more sweeping opening; it includes the iceman who does a +humorous article on the subject of his troubles, and the neglected +wife next door, who journalizes) knows that a story the scene of +which is not New York is merely junk. Take Fifth Avenue as a +framework, pad it out to five thousand words, and there you have +the ideal short story. + +Consequently I feel a certain timidity in confessing that I do +not know Fifth Avenue from Hester Street when I see it, because +I've never seen it. It has been said that from the latter to the +former is a ten-year journey, from which I have gathered that they +lie some miles apart. As for Forty-second Street, of which musical +comedians carol, I know not if it be a fashionable shopping +thoroughfare or a factory district. + +A confession of this kind is not only good for the soul, but +for the editor. It saves him the trouble of turning to page two. + +This is a story of Chicago, which is a first cousin of New +York, although the two are not on chummy terms. It is a story of +that part of Chicago which lies east of Dearborn Avenue and south +of Division Street, and which may be called the Nottingham curtain +district. + +In the Nottingham curtain district every front parlor window +is embellished with a "Rooms With or Without Board" sign. The +curtains themselves have mellowed from their original +department-store-basement-white to a rich, deep tone of Chicago +smoke, which has the notorious London variety beaten by several +shades. Block after block the two-story-and-basement houses +stretch, all grimy and gritty and looking sadly down upon the five +square feet of mangy grass forming the pitiful front yard of each. +Now and then the monotonous line of front stoops is broken by an +outjutting basement delicatessen shop. But not often. The +Nottingham curtain district does not run heavily to delicacies. It +is stronger on creamed cabbage and bread pudding. + +Up in the third floor back at Mis' Buck's (elegant rooms $2.50 +and up a week. Gents preferred) Gertie was brushing her hair for +the night. One hundred strokes with a bristle brush. Anyone who +reads the beauty column in the newspapers knows that. There was +something heroic in the sight of Gertie brushing her hair one +hundred strokes before going to bed at night. Only a woman could +understand her doing it. + +Gertie clerked downtown on State Street, in a gents' glove +department. A gents' glove department requires careful dressing on +the part of its clerks, and the manager, in selecting them, is +particular about choosing "lookers," with especial attention to +figure, hair, and finger nails. Gertie was a looker. Providence +had taken care of that. But you cannot leave your hair and finger +nails to Providence. They demand coaxing with a bristle brush and +an orangewood stick. + +Now clerking, as Gertie would tell you, is fierce on the feet. +And when your feet are tired you are tired all over. Gertie's feet +were tired every night. About eight-thirty she longed to peel off +her clothes, drop them in a heap on the floor, and tumble, +unbrushed, unwashed, unmanicured, into bed. She never did it. + +Things had been particularly trying to-night. After washing +out three handkerchiefs and pasting them with practised hand over +the mirror, Gertie had taken off her shoes and discovered a hole +the size of a silver quarter in the heel of her left stocking. +Gertie had a country-bred horror of holey stockings. She darned +the hole, yawning, her aching feet pressed against the smooth, cool +leg of the iron bed. That done, she had had the colossal courage +to wash her face, slap cold cream on it, and push back the cuticle +around her nails. + +Seated huddled on the side of her thin little iron bed, Gertie +was brushing her hair bravely, counting the strokes somewhere in +her sub-conscious mind and thinking busily all the while of +something else. Her brush rose, fell, swept downward, rose, fell, +rhythmically. + +"Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety -- Oh, darn +it! What's the use!" cried Gertie, and hurled the brush across the +room with a crack. + +She sat looking after it with wide, staring eyes until the +brush blurred in with the faded red roses on the carpet. When she +found it doing that she got up, wadded her hair viciously into a +hard bun in the back instead of braiding it carefully as usual, +crossed the room (it wasn't much of a trip), picked up the brush, +and stood looking down at it, her under lip caught between her +teeth. That is the humiliating part of losing your temper and +throwing things. You have to come down to picking them up, anyway. + +Her lip still held prisoner, Gertie tossed the brush on the +bureau, fastened her nightgown at the throat with a safety pin, +turned out the gas and crawled into bed. + +Perhaps the hard bun at the back of her head kept her awake. +She lay there with her eyes wide open and sleepless, staring into +the darkness. + +At midnight the Kid Next Door came in whistling, like one +unused to boarding-house rules. Gertie liked him for that. At the +head of the stairs he stopped whistling and came softly into his +own third floor back just next to Gertie's. Gertie liked him for +that, too. + +The two rooms had been one in the fashionable days of the +Nottingham curtain district, long before the advent of Mis' Buck. +That thrifty lady, on coming into possession, had caused a flimsy +partition to be run up, slicing the room in twain and doubling its +rental. + +Lying there Gertie could hear the Kid Next Door moving about +getting ready for bed and humming "Every Little Movement Has a +Meaning of Its Own" very lightly, under his breath. He polished +his shoes briskly, and Gertie smiled there in the darkness of her +own room in sympathy. Poor kid, he had his beauty struggles, too. + +Gertie had never seen the Kid Next Door, although he had come +four months ago. But she knew he wasn't a grouch, because he +alternately whistled and sang off-key tenor while dressing in the +morning. She had also discovered that his bed must run along the +same wall against which her bed was pushed. Gertie told herself +that there was something almost immodest about being able to hear +him breathing as he slept. He had tumbled into bed with a little +grunt of weariness. + +Gertie lay there another hour, staring into the darkness. +Then she began to cry softly, lying on her face with her head +between her arms. The cold cream and the salt tears mingled and +formed a slippery paste. Gertie wept on because she couldn't help +it. The longer she wept the more difficult her sobs became, until +finally they bordered on the hysterical. They filled her lungs +until they ached and reached her throat with a force that jerked +her head back. + +"Rap-rap-rap!" sounded sharply from the head of her bed. + +Gertie stopped sobbing, and her heart stopped ,beating. She +lay tense and still, listening. Everyone knows that spooks rap +three times at the head of one's bed. It's a regular high-sign +with them. + +"Rap-rap-rap!" + +Gertie's skin became goose-flesh, and coldwater effects chased +up and down her spine. + +"What's your trouble in there?" demanded an unspooky voice so +near that Gertie jumped. "Sick?" + +It was the Kid Next Door. + +"N-no, I'm not sick," faltered Gertie, her mouth close to the +wall. Just then a belated sob that had stopped halfway when the +raps began hustled on to join its sisters. It took Gertie by +surprise, and brought prompt response from the other side of the +wall. + +"I'll bet I scared you green. I didn't mean to, but, on the +square, if you're feeling sick, a little nip of brandy will set you +up. Excuse my mentioning it, girlie, but I'd do the same for my +sister. I hate like sin to hear a woman suffer like that, and, +anyway, I don't know whether you're fourteen or forty, so +it's perfectly respectable. I'll get the bottle and leave it +outside your door." + +"No you don't!" answered Gertie in a hollow voice, praying +meanwhile that the woman in the room below might be sleeping. "I'm +not sick, honestly I'm not. I'm just as much obliged, and I'm dead +sorry I woke you up with my blubbering. I started out with the +soft pedal on, but things got away from me. Can you hear me?" + +"Like a phonograph. Sure you couldn't use a sip of brandy +where it'd do the most good?" + +"Sure." + +"Well, then, cut out the weeps and get your beauty sleep, kid. +He ain't worth sobbing over, anyway, believe me." + +"He!" snorted Gertie indignantly. "You're cold. There never +was anything in peg-tops that could make me carry on like the +heroine of the Elsie series." + +"Lost your job?" + +"No such luck." + +"Well, then, what in Sam Hill could make a woman----" + +"Lonesome!" snapped Gertie. "And the floorwalker got fresh +to-day. And I found two gray hairs to-night. And I'd give my next +week's pay envelope to hear the double click that our front gate +gives back home." + +"Back home!" echoed the Kid Next Door in a dangerously loud +voice. "Say, I want to talk to you. If you'll promise you won't +get sore and think I'm fresh, I'll ask you a favor. Slip on a +kimono and we'll sneak down to the front stoop and talk it over. +I'm as wide awake as a chorus girl and twice as hungry. I've got +two apples and a box of crackers. Are you on?" + +Gertie snickered. "It isn't done in our best sets, but I'm +on. I've got a can of sardines and an orange. I'll be ready in +six minutes." + +She was, too. She wiped off the cold cream and salt tears +with a dry towel, did her hair in a schoolgirl braid and tied it +with a big bow, and dressed herself in a black skirt and a baby +blue dressing sacque. The Kid Next Door was waiting outside in the +hall. His gray sweater covered a multitude of sartorial +deficiencies. Gertie stared at him, and he stared at Gertie in the +sickly blue light of the boarding-house hall, and it took her +one-half of one second to discover that she liked his mouth, and +his eyes, and the way his hair was mussed. + +"Why, you're only a kid!" whispered the Kid Next Door, in +surprise. + +Gertie smothered a laugh. "You're not the first man that's +been deceived by a pig-tail braid and a baby blue waist. I could +locate those two gray hairs for you with my eyes shut and my feet +in a sack. Come on, boy. These Robert W. Chambers situations make +me nervous." + +Many earnest young writers with a flow of adjectives and a +passion for detail have attempted to describe the quiet of a great +city at night, when a few million people within it are sleeping, or +ought to be. They work in the clang of a distant owl car, and the +roar of an occasional "L" train, and the hollow echo of the +footsteps of the late passer-by. They go elaborately into +description, and are strong on the brooding hush, but the thing has +never been done satisfactorily. + +Gertie, sitting on the front stoop at two in the morning, with +her orange in one hand and the sardine can in the other, put it +this way: + +"If I was to hear a cricket chirp now, I'd screech. This +isn't really quiet. It's like waiting for a cannon cracker to go +off just before the fuse is burned down. The bang isn't there yet, +but you hear it a hundred times in your mind before it happens." + +"My name's Augustus G. Eddy," announced the Kid Next Door, +solemnly. "Back home they always called me Gus. You peel that +orange while I unroll the top of this sardine can. I'm guilty of +having interrupted you in the middle of what the girls call a good +cry, and I know you'll have to get it out of your system some way. +Take a bite of apple and then wade right in and tell me what you're +doing in this burg if you don't like it." + +"This thing ought to have slow music," began Gertie. "It's +pathetic. I came to Chicago from Beloit, Wisconsin, because I +thought that little town was a lonesome hole for a vivacious +creature like me. Lonesome! Listen while I laugh a low mirthless +laugh. I didn't know anything about the three-ply, +double-barreled, extra heavy brand of lonesomeness that a big town +like this can deal out. Talk about your desert wastes! They're +sociable and snug compared to this. I know three-fourths of the +people in Beloit, Wisconsin, by their first names. I've lived here +six months and I'm not on informal terms with anybody except Teddy, +the landlady's dog, and he's a trained rat-and-book-agent terrier, +and not inclined to overfriendliness. When I clerked at the +Enterprise Store in Beloit the women used to come in and ask for +something we didn't carry just for an excuse to copy the way the +lace yoke effects were planned in my shirtwaists. You ought to see +the way those same shirtwaist stack up here. Why, boy, the +lingerie waists that the other girls in my department wear make my +best hand-tucked effort look like a simple English country blouse. +They're so dripping with Irish crochet and real Val and Cluny +insertions that it's a wonder the girls don't get stoop-shouldered +carrying 'em around." + +"Hold on a minute," commanded Gus. "This thing is uncanny. +Our cases dovetail like the deductions in a detective story. Kneel +here at my feet, little daughter, and I'll tell you the story of my +sad young life. I'm no child of the city streets, either. Say, I +came to this town because I thought there was a bigger field for me +in Gents' Furnishings. Joke, what?" + +But Gertie didn't smile. She gazed up at Gus, and Gus gazed +down at her, and his fingers fiddled absently with the big bow at +the end of her braid. + +"And isn't there?" asked Gertie, sympathetically. + +"Girlie, I haven't saved twelve dollars since I came. I'm no +tightwad, and I don't believe in packing everything away into a +white marble mausoleum, but still a gink kind of whispers to +himself that some day he'll be furnishing up a kitchen pantry of +his own." + +"Oh!" said Gertie. + +"And let me mention in passing," continued Gus, winding the +ribbon bow around his finger, "that in the last hour or so that +whisper has been swelling to a shout." + +"Oh!" said Gertie again. + +"You said it. But I couldn't buy a secondhand gas stove with +what I've saved in the last half-year here. Back home they used to +think I was a regular little village John Drew, I was so dressy. +But here I look like a yokel on circus day compared to the other +fellows in the store. All they need is a field glass strung over +their shoulder to make them look like a clothing ad in the back of +a popular magazine. Say, girlie, you've got the prettiest hair +I've seen since I blew in here. Look at that braid! Thick as a +rope! That's no relation to the piles of jute that the Flossies +here stack on their heads. And shines! Like satin." + +"It ought to," said Gertrude, wearily. "I brush it a hundred +strokes every night. Sometimes I'm so beat that I fall asleep with +my brush in the air. The manager won't stand for any romping curls +or hooks-and-eyes that don't connect. It keeps me so busy being +beautiful, and what the society writers call `well groomed,' that +I don't have time to sew the buttons on my underclothes." + +"But don't you get some amusement in the evening?" marveled +Gus. "What was the matter with you and the other girls in the +store? Can't you hit it off?" + +"Me? No. I guess I was too woodsy for them. I went out with +them a couple of times. I guess they're nice girls all right; but +they've got what you call a broader way of looking at things than +I have. Living in a little town all your life makes you narrow. +These girls!--Well, maybe I'll get educated up to their plane some +day, but----" + +"No, you don't!" hissed Gus. "Not if I can help it." + +"But you can't," replied Gertie, sweetly. "My, ain't this a +grand night! Evenings like this I used to love to putter around +the yard after supper, sprinkling the grass and weeding the +radishes. I'm the greatest kid to fool around with a hose. And +flowers! Say, they just grow for me. You ought to have seen my +pansies and nasturtiums last summer." + +The fingers of the Kid Next Door wandered until they found +Gertie's. They clasped them. + +"This thing just points one way, little one. It's just as +plain as a path leading up to a cozy little three-room flat up +here on the North Side somewhere. See it? With me and you +married, and playing at housekeeping in a parlor and bedroom and +kitchen? And both of us going down town to work in the morning +just the same as we do now. Only not the same, either." + +"Wake up, little boy," said Gertie, prying her fingers away +from those other detaining ones. "I'd fit into a three-room flat +like a whale in a kitchen sink. I'm going back to Beloit, +Wisconsin. I've learned my lesson all right. There's a fellow +there waiting for me. I used to think he was too slow. But say, +he's got the nicest little painting and paper-hanging business you +ever saw, and making money. He's secretary of the K. P.'s back +home. They give some swell little dances during the winter, +especially for the married members. In five years we'll own our +home, with a vegetable garden in the back. I'm a little frog, and +it's me for the puddle." + +Gus stood up slowly. Gertie felt a little pang of compunction +when she saw what a boy he was. + +"I don't know when I've enjoyed a talk like this. I've heard +about these dawn teas, but I never thought I'd go to one," she +said. + +"Good-night, girlie," interrupted Gus, abruptly. "It's the +dreamless couch for mine. We've got a big sale on in tan and black +seconds to-morrow." + + + + +II + + +THE MAN WHO CAME BACK + +There are two ways of doing battle against Disgrace. You may live +it down; or you may run away from it and hide. The first method is +heart-breaking, but sure. The second cannot be relied upon because +of the uncomfortable way Disgrace has of turning up at your heels +just when you think you have eluded her in the last town but one. + +Ted Terrill did not choose the first method. He had it thrust +upon him. After Ted had served his term he came back home to visit +his mother's grave, intending to take the next train out. He wore +none of the prison pallor that you read about in books, because he +had been shortstop on the penitentiary all-star baseball team, and +famed for the dexterity with which he could grab up red-hot +grounders. The storied lock step and the clipped hair effect also +were missing. The superintendent of Ted's prison had been one of +the reform kind. + +You never would have picked Ted for a criminal. He had none +of those interesting phrenological bumps and depressions that +usually are shown to such frank advantage in the Bertillon +photographs. Ted had been assistant cashier in the Citizens' +National Bank. In a mad moment he had attempted a little +sleight-of-hand act in which certain Citizens' National funds were +to be transformed into certain glittering shares and back again so +quickly that the examiners couldn't follow it with their eyes. But +Ted was unaccustomed to these now-you-see-it-and-now-you-don't +feats and his hand slipped. The trick dropped to the floor with an +awful clatter. + +Ted had been a lovable young kid, six feet high, and blonde, +with a great reputation as a dresser. He had the first yellow +plush hat in our town. It sat on his golden head like a halo. The +women all liked Ted. Mrs. Dankworth, the dashing widow (why will +widows persist in being dashing?), said that he was the only man in +our town who knew how to wear a dress suit. The men were forever +slapping him on the back and asking him to have a little something. + +Ted's good looks and his clever tongue and a certain charming Irish +way he had with him caused him to be taken up by the smart set. +Now, if you've never lived in a small town you will be much amused +at the idea of its boasting a smart set. Which proves your +ignorance. The small town smart set is deadly serious about its +smartness. It likes to take six-hour runs down to the city to fit +a pair of shoes and hear Caruso. Its clothes are as well made, and +its scandals as crisp, and its pace as hasty, and its golf club as +dull as the clothes, and scandals, and pace, and golf club of its +city cousins. + +The hasty pace killed Ted. He tried to keep step in a set of +young folks whose fathers had made our town. And all the time his +pocketbook was yelling, "Whoa!" The young people ran largely to +scarlet-upholstered touring cars, and country-club doings, and +house parties, as small town younger generations are apt to. When +Ted went to high school half the boys in his little clique spent +their after-school hours dashing up and down Main street in their +big, glittering cars, sitting slumped down on the middle of their +spines in front of the steering wheel, their sleeves rolled up, +their hair combed a militant pompadour. One or the other of them +always took Ted along. It is fearfully easy to develop a taste for +that kind of thing. As he grew older, the taste took root and +became a habit. + +Ted came out after serving his term, still handsome, spite of +all that story-writers may have taught to the contrary. But we'll +make this concession to the old tradition. There was a difference. + +His radiant blondeur was dimmed in some intangible, elusive way. +Birdie Callahan, who had worked in Ted's mother's kitchen for +years, and who had gone back to her old job at the Haley House +after her mistress's death, put it sadly, thus: + +"He was always th' han'some divil. I used to look forward to +ironin' day just for the pleasure of pressin' his fancy shirts for +him. I'm that partial to them swell blondes. But I dinnaw, he's +changed. Doin' time has taken the edge off his hair an' +complexion. Not changed his color, do yuh mind, but dulled it, +like a gold ring, or the like, that has tarnished." + +Ted was seated in the smoker, with a chip on his shoulder, and +a sick horror of encountering some one he knew in his heart, when +Jo Haley, of the Haley House, got on at Westport, homeward bound. +Jo Haley is the most eligible bachelor in our town, and the +slipperiest. He has made the Haley House a gem, so that traveling +men will cut half a dozen towns to Sunday there. If he should say +"Jump through this!" to any girl in our town she'd jump. + +Jo Haley strolled leisurely up the car aisle toward Ted. Ted +saw him coming and sat very still, waiting. + +"Hello, Ted! How's Ted?" said Jo Haley, casually. And +dropped into the adjoining seat without any more fuss. + +Ted wet his lips slightly and tried to say something. He had +been a breezy talker. But the words would not come. Jo Haley made +no effort to cover the situation with a rush of conversation. He +did not seem to realize that there was any situation to cover. He +champed the end of his cigar and handed one to Ted. + +"Well, you've taken your lickin', kid. What you going to do +now?" + +The rawness of it made Ted wince. "Oh, I don't know," he +stammered. "I've a job half promised in Chicago." + +"What doing?" + +Ted laughed a short and ugly laugh. "Driving a brewery auto +truck." + +Jo Haley tossed his cigar dexterously to the opposite corner +of his mouth and squinted thoughtfully along its bulging sides. + +"Remember that Wenzel girl that's kept books for me for the +last six years? She's leaving in a couple of months to marry a New +York guy that travels for ladies' cloaks and suits. After she goes +it's nix with the lady bookkeepers for me. Not that Minnie isn't +a good, straight girl, and honest, but no girl can keep books with +one eye on a column of figures and the other on a traveling man in +a brown suit and a red necktie, unless she's cross-eyed, and you +bet Minnie ain't. The job's yours if you want it. Eighty a month +to start on, and board." + +"I--can't, Jo. Thanks just the same. I'm going to try to +begin all over again, somewhere else, where nobody knows me." + +"Oh yes," said Jo. "I knew a fellow that did that. After he +came out he grew a beard, and wore eyeglasses, and changed his +name. Had a quick, crisp way of talkin', and he cultivated a drawl +and went west and started in business. Real estate, I think. +Anyway, the second month he was there in walks a fool he used to +know and bellows: `Why if it ain't Bill! Hello, Bill! I thought +you was doing time yet.' That was enough. Ted, you can black your +face, and dye your hair, and squint, and some fine day, sooner or +later, somebody'll come along and blab the whole thing. And say, +the older it gets the worse it sounds, when it does come out. +Stick around here where you grew up, Ted." + +Ted clasped and unclasped his hands uncomfortably. "I can't +figure out why you should care how I finish." + +"No reason," answered Jo. "Not a darned one. I wasn't ever +in love with your ma, like the guy on the stage; and I never owed +your pa a cent. So it ain't a guilty conscience. I guess it's +just pure cussedness, and a hankerin' for a new investment. I'm +curious to know how'll you turn out. You've got the makin's of +what the newspapers call a Leading Citizen, even if you did fall +down once. If I'd ever had time to get married, which I never will +have, a first-class hotel bein' more worry and expense than a +Pittsburg steel magnate's whole harem, I'd have wanted somebody to +do the same for my kid. That sounds slushy, but it's straight." + +"I don't seem to know how to thank you," began Ted, a little +husky as to voice. + +"Call around to-morrow morning," interrupted Jo Haley., +briskly, "and Minnie Wenzel will show you the ropes. You and her +can work together for a couple of months. After then she's leaving +to make her underwear, and that. I should think she'd have a bale +of it by this time. Been embroidering them shimmy things and lunch +cloths back of the desk when she thought I wasn't lookin' for the +last six months." + +Ted came down next morning at 8 A.M. with his nerve between +his teeth and the chip still balanced lightly on his shoulder. +Five minutes later Minnie Wenzel knocked it off. When Jo Haley +introduced the two jocularly, knowing that they had originally met +in the First Reader room, Miss Wenzel acknowledged the introduction +icily by lifting her left eyebrow slightly and drawing down the +corners of her mouth. Her air of hauteur was a triumph, +considering that she was handicapped by black sateen +sleevelets. + +I wonder how one could best describe Miss Wenzel? There is +one of her in every small town. Let me think (business of hand on +brow). Well, she always paid eight dollars for her corsets when +most girls in a similar position got theirs for fifty-nine cents in +the basement. Nature had been kind to her. The hair that had been +a muddy brown in Minnie's schoolgirl days it had touched with a +magic red-gold wand. Birdie Callahan always said that Minnie was +working only to wear out her old clothes. + +After the introduction Miss Wenzel followed Jo Haley into the +lobby. She took no pains to lower her voice. + +"Well I must say, Mr. Haley, you've got a fine nerve! If my +gentleman friend was to hear of my working with an ex-con I +wouldn't be surprised if he'd break off the engagement. I should +think you'd have some respect for the feelings of a lady with a +name to keep up, and engaged to a swell fellow like Mr. Schwartz." + +"Say, listen, m' girl," replied Jo Haley. "The law don't +cover all the tricks. But if stuffing an order was a criminal +offense I'll bet your swell traveling man would be doing a life +term." + +Ted worked that day with his teeth set so that his jaws ached +next morning. Minnie Wenzel spoke to him only when necessary and +then in terms of dollars and cents. When dinner time came she +divested herself of the black sateen sleevelets, wriggled from the +shoulders down a la Patricia O'Brien, produced a chamois skin, and +disappeared in the direction of the washroom. Ted waited until the +dining-room was almost deserted. Then he went in to dinner alone. +Some one in white wearing an absurd little pocket handkerchief of +an apron led him to a seat in a far corner of the big room. Ted +did not lift his eyes higher than the snowy square of the apron. +The Apron drew out a chair, shoved it under Ted's knees in the way +Aprons have, and thrust a printed menu at him. + +"Roast beef, medium," said Ted, without looking up. + +"Bless your heart, yuh ain't changed a bit. I remember how +yuh used to jaw when it was too well done," said the Apron, fondly. + +Ted's head came up with a jerk. + +"So yuh will cut yer old friends, is it?" grinned Birdie +Callahan. "If this wasn't a public dining-room maybe yuh'd shake +hands with a poor but proud workin' girrul. Yer as good lookin' a +divil as ever, Mister Ted." + +Ted's hand shot out and grasped hers. "Birdie! I could weep +on your apron! I never was so glad to see any one in my life. +Just to look at you makes me homesick. What in Sam Hill are you +doing here?" + +"Waitin'. After yer ma died, seemed like I didn't care t' +work fer no other privit fam'ly, so I came back here on my old job. +I'll bet I'm the homeliest head waitress in captivity." + +Ted's nervous fingers were pleating the tablecloth. His voice +sank to a whisper. "Birdie, tell me the God's truth. Did those +three years cause her death?" + +"Niver!" lied Birdie. "I was with her to the end. It started +with a cold on th' chest. Have some French fried with yer beef, +Mr. Teddy. They're illigent to-day." + +Birdie glided off to the kitchen. Authors are fond of the +word "glide." But you can take it literally this time. Birdie had +a face that looked like a huge mistake, but she walked like a +panther, and they're said to be the last cry as gliders. She +walked with her chin up and her hips firm. That comes from +juggling trays. You have to walk like that to keep your nose out +of the soup. After a while the walk becomes a habit. Any seasoned +dining-room girl could give lessons in walking to the Delsarte +teacher of an Eastern finishing school. + +From the day that Birdie Callahan served Ted with the roast +beef medium and the elegant French fried, she appointed herself +monitor over his food and clothes and morals. I wish I could find +words to describe his bitter loneliness. He did not seek +companionship. The men, although not directly avoiding him, seemed +somehow to have pressing business whenever they happened in his +vicinity. The women ignored him. Mrs. Dankworth, still dashing +and still widowed, passed Ted one day and looked fixedly at a point +one inch above his head. In a town like ours the Haley House is +like a big, hospitable clubhouse. The men drop in there the first +thing in the morning, and the last thing at night, to hear the +gossip and buy a cigar and jolly the girl at the cigar counter. +Ted spoke to them when they spoke to him. He began to develop a +certain grim line about the mouth. Jo Haley watched him from afar, +and the longer he watched the kinder and more speculative grew the +look in his eyes. And slowly and surely there grew in the hearts +of our townspeople a certain new respect and admiration for this +boy who was fighting his fight. + +Ted got into the habit of taking his meals late, so that +Birdie Callahan could take the time to talk to him. + +"Birdie," he said one day, when she brought his soup, "do you +know that you're the only decent woman who'll talk to me? Do you +know what I mean when I say that I'd give the rest of my life if I +could just put my head in my mother's lap and have her muss up my +hair and call me foolish names?" + +Birdie Callahan cleared her throat and said abruptly: "I was +noticin' yesterday your gray pants needs pressin' bad. Bring 'em +down tomorrow mornin' and I'll give 'em th' elegant crease in the +laundry." + +So the first weeks went by, and the two months of Miss +Wenzel's stay came to an end. Ted thanked his God and tried hard +not to wish that she was a man so that he could punch her head. + +The day before the time appointed for her departure she was +closeted with Jo Haley for a long, long time. When finally she +emerged a bellboy lounged up to Ted with a message. + +"Wenzel says th' Old Man wants t' see you. 'S in his office. +Say, Mr. Terrill, do yuh think they can play to-day? It's pretty +wet." + +Jo Haley was sunk in the depths of his big leather chair. He +did not look up as Ted entered. "Sit down," he said. Ted sat down +and waited, puzzled. + +"As a wizard at figures," mused Jo Haley at last, softly as +though to himself, "I'm a frost. A column of figures on paper +makes my head swim. But I can carry a whole regiment of 'em in my +head. I know every time the barkeeper draws one in the dark. I've +been watchin' this thing for the last two weeks hopin' you'd quit +and come and tell me." He turned suddenly and faced Ted. "Ted, +old kid," he said sadly, "what'n'ell made you do it again?" + +"What's the joke?" asked Ted. + +"Now, Ted," remonstrated Jo Haley, "that way of talkin' won't +help matters none. As I said, I'm rotten at figures. But you're +the first investment that ever turned out bad, and let me tell you +I've handled some mighty bad smelling ones. Why, kid, if you had +just come to me on the quiet and asked for the loan of a hundred or +so why----" + +"What's the joke, Jo?" said Ted again, slowly. + +"This ain't my notion of a joke," came the terse answer. +"We're three hundred short." + +The last vestige of Ted Terrill's old-time radiance seemed to +flicker and die, leaving him ashen and old. + +"Short?" he repeated. Then, "My God!" in a strangely +colorless voice--"My God!" He looked down at his fingers +impersonally, as though they belonged to some one else. Then his +hand clutched Jo Haley's arm with the grip of fear. "Jo! Jo! +That's the thing that has haunted me day and night, till my nerves +are raw. The fear of doing it again. Don't laugh at me, will you? +I used to lie awake nights going over that cursed business of the +bank--over and over--till the cold sweat would break out all over +me. I used to figure it all out again, step by step, until--Jo, +could a man steal and not know it? Could thinking of a thing like +that drive a man crazy? Because if it could--if it +could--then----" + +"I don't know," said Jo Haley, "but it sounds darned fishy." +He had a hand on Ted's shaking shoulder, and was looking into the +white, drawn face. "I had great plans for you, Ted. But Minnie +Wenzel's got it all down on slips of paper. I might as well call +her, in again, and we'll have the whole blamed thing out." + +Minnie Wenzel came. In her hand were slips of paper, and +books with figures in them, and Ted looked and saw things written +in his own hand that should not have been there. And he covered +his shamed face with his two hands and gave thanks that his mother +was dead. + +There came three sharp raps at the office door. The tense +figures within jumped nervously. + +"Keep out!" called Jo Haley, "whoever you are." Whereupon the +door opened and Birdie Callahan breezed in. + +"Get out, Birdie Callahan," roared Jo. "You're in the wrong +pew." + +Birdie closed the door behind her composedly and came farther +into the room. "Pete th' pasthry cook just tells me that Minnie +Wenzel told th' day clerk, who told the barkeep, who told th' +janitor, who told th' chef, who told Pete, that Minnie had caught +Ted stealin' some three hundred dollars." + +Ted took a quick step forward. "Birdie, for Heaven's sake +keep out of this. You can't make things any better. You may +believe in me, but----" + +"Where's the money?" asked Birdie. + +Ted stared at her a moment, his mouth open ludicrously. + +"Why--I--don't--know," he articulated, painfully. "I never +thought of that." + +Birdie snorted defiantly. "I thought so. D'ye know," +sociably, "I was visitin' with my aunt Mis' Mulcahy last evenin'." + +There was a quick rustle of silks from Minnie Wenzel's +direction. + +"Say, look here----" began Jo Haley, impatiently. + +"Shut up, Jo Haley!" snapped Birdie. "As I was sayin', I was +visitin' with my aunt Mis' Mulcahy. She does fancy washin' an' +ironin' for the swells. An' Minnie Wenzel, there bein' none +sweller, hires her to do up her weddin' linens. Such smears av +hand embridery an' Irish crochet she never see th' likes, Mis' +Mulcahy says, and she's seen a lot. And as a special treat to the +poor owld soul, why Minnie Wenzel lets her see some av her weddin' +clo'es. There never yet was a woman who cud resist showin' her +weddin' things to every other woman she cud lay hands on. Well, +Mis' Mulcahy, she see that grand trewsow and she said she never saw +th' beat. Dresses! Well, her going away suit alone comes to +eighty dollars, for it's bein' made by Molkowsky, the little Polish +tailor. An' her weddin' dress is satin, do yuh mind! Oh, it was +a real treat for my aunt Mis' Mulcahy." + +Birdie walked over to where Minnie Wenzel sat, very white and +still, and pointed a stubby red finger in her face. "'Tis the +grand manager ye are, Miss Wenzel, gettin' satins an' tailor-mades +on yer salary. It takes a woman, Minnie Wenzel, to see through a +woman's thricks." + +"Well I'll be dinged!" exploded Jo Haley. + +"Yuh'd better be!" retorted Birdie Callahan. + +Minnie Wenzel stood up, her lip caught between her teeth. + +"Am I to understand, Jo Haley, that you dare to accuse me of +taking your filthy money, instead of that miserable ex-con there +who has done time?" + +"That'll do, Minnie," said Jo Haley, gently. "That's +a-plenty." + +"Prove it," went on Minnie, and then looked as though she +wished she hadn't. + +"A business college edjication is a grand foine thing," +observed Birdie. "Miss Wenzel is a graduate av wan. They teach +you everything from drawin' birds with tail feathers to plain and +fancy penmanship. In fact, they teach everything in the writin' +line except forgery, an' I ain't so sure they haven't got a coorse +in that." + +"I don't care," whimpered Minnie Wenzel suddenly, sinking in +a limp heap on the floor. "I had to do it. I'm marrying a swell +fellow and a girl's got to have some clothes that don't look like +a Bird Center dressmaker's work. He's got three sisters. I saw +their pictures and they're coming to the wedding. They're the kind +that wear low-necked dresses in the evening, and have their hair +and nails done downtown. I haven't got a thing but my looks. +Could I go to New York dressed like a rube? On the square, Jo, I +worked here six years and never took a sou. But things got away +from me. The tailor wouldn't finish my suit unless I paid him fifty +dollars down. I only took fifty at first, intending to pay it +back. Honest to goodness, Jo, I did." + +"Cut it out," said Jo Haley, "and get up. I was going to give +you a check for your wedding, though I hadn't counted on no three +hundred. We'll call it square. And I hope you'll be happy, but I +don't gamble on it. You'll be goin' through your man's pants +pockets before you're married a year. You can take your hat and +fade. I'd like to know how I'm ever going to square this thing +with Ted and Birdie." + +"An' me standin' here gassin' while them fool girls in the +dinin'-room can't set a table decent, and dinner in less than ten +minutes," cried Birdie, rushing off. Ted mumbled something +unintelligible and was after her. + +"Birdie! I want to talk to you." + +"Say it quick then," said Birdie, over her shoulder. "The +doors open in three minnits." + +"I can't tell you how grateful I am. This is no place to talk +to you. Will you let me walk home with you to-night after your +work's done?" + +"Will I?" said Birdie, turning to face him. "I will not. Th' +swell mob has shook you, an' a good thing it is. You was travelin' +with a bunch of racers, when you was only built for medium speed. +Now you're got your chance to a fresh start and don't you ever +think I'm going to be the one to let you spoil it by beginnin' to +walk out with a dinin'-room Lizzie like me." + +"Don't say that, Birdie," Ted put in. + +"It's the truth," affirmed Birdie. "Not that I ain't a +perfec'ly respectable girrul, and ye know it. I'm a good slob, but +folks would be tickled for the chance to say that you had nobody to +go with but the likes av me. If I was to let you walk home with me +to-night, yuh might be askin' to call next week. Inside half a +year, if yuh was lonesome enough, yuh'd ask me to marry yuh. And +b'gorra," she said softly, looking down at her unlovely red hands, +"I'm dead scared I'd do it. Get back to work, Ted Terrill, and +hold yer head up high, and when yuh say your prayers to-night, +thank your lucky stars I ain't a hussy." + + + +III + + +WHAT SHE WORE + +Somewhere in your story you must pause to describe your heroine's +costume. It is a ticklish task. The average reader likes his +heroine well dressed. He is not satisfied with knowing that she +looked like a tall, fair lily. He wants to be told that her gown +was of green crepe, with lace ruffles that swirled at her feet. +Writers used to go so far as to name the dressmaker; and it was a +poor kind of a heroine who didn't wear a red velvet by Worth. But +that has been largely abandoned in these days of commissions. +Still, when the heroine goes out on the terrace to spoon after +dinner (a quaint old English custom for the origin of which see any +novel by the "Duchess," page 179) the average reader wants to know +what sort of a filmy wrap she snatches up on the way out. He +demands a description, with as many illustrations as the publisher +will stand for, of what she wore from the bedroom to the street, +with full stops for the ribbons on her robe de nuit, and the +buckles on her ballroom slippers. Half the poor creatures one sees +flattening their noses against the shop windows are authors getting +a line on the advance fashions. Suppose a careless writer were to +dress his heroine in a full-plaited skirt only to find, when his +story is published four months later, that full-plaited skirts have +been relegated to the dim past! + +I started to read a story once. It was a good one. There was +in it not a single allusion to brandy-and-soda, or divorce, or the +stock market. The dialogue crackled. The hero talked like a live +man. It was a shipboard story, and the heroine was charming so +long as she wore her heavy ulster. But along toward evening she +blossomed forth in a yellow gown, with a scarlet poinsettia at her +throat. I quit her cold. Nobody ever wore a scarlet poinsettia; +or if they did, they couldn't wear it on a yellow gown. Or if they +did wear it with a yellow gown, they didn't wear it at the throat. +Scarlet poinsettias aren't worn, anyhow. To this day I don't know +whether the heroine married the hero or jumped overboard. + +You see, one can't be too careful about clothing one's +heroine. + +I hesitate to describe Sophy Epstein's dress. You won't like +it. In the first place, it was cut too low, front and back, for a +shoe clerk in a downtown loft. It was a black dress, near-princess +in style, very tight as to fit, very short as to skirt, very sleazy +as to material. It showed all the delicate curves of Sophy's +under-fed, girlish body, and Sophy didn't care a bit. Its most +objectionable feature was at the throat. Collarless gowns were in +vogue. Sophy's daring shears had gone a snip or two farther. They +had cut a startlingly generous V. To say that the dress was +elbow-sleeved is superfluous. I have said that Sophy clerked in a +downtown loft. + +Sophy sold "sample" shoes at two-fifty a pair, and from where +you were standing you thought they looked just like the shoes that +were sold in the regular shops for six. When Sophy sat on one of +the low benches at the feet of some customer, tugging away at a +refractory shoe for a would-be small foot, her shameless little +gown exposed more than it should have. But few of Sophy's +customers were shocked. They were mainly chorus girls and ladies +of doubtful complexion in search of cheap and ultra footgear, +and--to use a health term--hardened by exposure. + +Have I told you how pretty she was? She was so pretty that +you immediately forgave her the indecency of her pitiful little +gown. She was pretty in a daringly demure fashion, like a wicked +little Puritan, or a poverty-stricken Cleo de Merode, with her +smooth brown hair parted in the middle, drawn severely down over +her ears, framing the lovely oval of her face and ending in a +simple coil at the neck. Some serpent's wisdom had told Sophy to +eschew puffs. But I think her prettiness could have triumphed even +over those. + +If Sophy's boss had been any other sort of man he would have +informed Sophy, sternly, that black princess effects, cut low, were +not au fait in the shoe-clerk world. But Sophy's boss had a +rhombic nose, and no instep, and the tail of his name had been +amputated. He didn't care how Sophy wore her dresses so long as +she sold shoes. + +Once the boss had kissed Sophy--not on the mouth, but just +where her shabby gown formed its charming but immodest V. Sophy +had slapped him, of course. But the slap had not set the thing +right in her mind. She could not forget it. It had made her +uncomfortable in much the same way as we are wildly ill at ease +when we dream of walking naked in a crowded street. At odd moments +during the day Sophy had found herself rubbing the spot furiously +with her unlovely handkerchief, and shivering a little. She had +never told the other girls about that kiss. + +So--there you have Sophy and her costume. You may take her or +leave her. I purposely placed these defects in costuming right at +the beginning of the story, so that there should be no false +pretenses. One more detail. About Sophy's throat was a slender, +near-gold chain from which was suspended a cheap and glittering La +Valliere. Sophy had not intended it as a sop to the conventions. +It was an offering on the shrine of Fashion, and represented many +lunchless days. + +At eleven o'clock one August morning, Louie came to Chicago +from Oskaloosa, Iowa. There was no hay in his hair. The comic +papers have long insisted that the country boy, on his first visit +to the city, is known by his greased boots and his high-water +pants. Don't you believe them. The small-town boy is as +fastidious about the height of his heels and the stripe of his +shift and the roll of his hat-brim as are his city brothers. He +peruses the slangily worded ads of the "classy clothes" tailors, +and when scarlet cravats are worn the small-town boy is not more +than two weeks late in acquiring one that glows like a headlight. + +Louie found a rooming-house, shoved his suitcase under the +bed, changed his collar, washed his hands in the gritty water of +the wash bowl, and started out to look for a job. + +Louie was twenty-one. For the last four years he had been +employed in the best shoe store at home, and he knew shoe leather +from the factory to the ash barrel. It was almost a religion with +him. + +Curiosity, which plays leads in so many life dramas, led Louie +to the rotunda of the tallest building. It was built on the hollow +center plan, with a sheer drop from the twenty-somethingth to the +main floor. Louie stationed himself in the center of the mosaic +floor, took off his hat, bent backward almost double and gazed, his +mouth wide open. When he brought his muscles slowly back into +normal position he tried hard not to look impressed. He glanced +about, sheepishly, to see if any one was laughing at him, and his +eye encountered the electric-lighted glass display case of the shoe +company upstairs. The case was filled with pink satin slippers and +cunning velvet boots, and the newest thing in bronze street shoes. +Louie took the next elevator up. The shoe display had made him +feel as though some one from home had slapped him on the back. + +The God of the Jobless was with him. The boss had fired two +boys the day before. + +"Oskaloosa!" grinned the boss, derisively. "Do they wear +shoes there? What do you know about shoes, huh boy?" + +Louie told him. The boss shuffled the papers on his desk, and +chewed his cigar, and tried not to show his surprise. Louie, quite +innocently, was teaching the boss things about the shoe business. + +When Louie had finished--"Well, I try you, anyhow," the boss +grunted, grudgingly. "I give you so-and-so much." He named a wage +that would have been ridiculous if it had not been so pathetic. + +"All right, sir," answered Louie, promptly, like the boys in +the Alger series. The cost of living problem had never bothered +Louie in Oskaloosa. + +The boss hid a pleased smile. + +"Miss Epstein!" he bellowed, "step this way! Miss Epstein, +kindly show this here young man so he gets a line on the stock. He +is from Oskaloosa, Ioway. Look out she don't sell you a gold +brick, Louie." + +But Louie was not listening. He was gazing at the V in Sophy +Epstein's dress with all his scandalized Oskaloosa, Iowa, eyes. + +Louie was no mollycoddle. But he had been in great demand as +usher at the Young Men's Sunday Evening Club service at the +Congregational church, and in his town there had been no Sophy +Epsteins in too-tight princess dresses, cut into a careless V. But +Sophy was a city product--I was about to say pure and simple, but +I will not--wise, bold, young, old, underfed, overworked, and +triumphantly pretty. + +"How-do!" cooed Sophy in her best baby tones. Louie's +disapproving eyes jumped from the objectionable V in Sophy's dress +to the lure of Sophy's face, and their expression underwent a +lightning change. There was no disapproving Sophy's face, no +matter how long one had dwelt in Oskaloosa. + +"I won't bite you," said Sophy. "I'm never vicious on +Tuesdays. We'll start here with the misses' an' children's, and +work over to the other side." + +Whereupon Louie was introduced into the intricacies of the +sample shoe business. He kept his eyes resolutely away from the V, +and learned many things. He learned how shoes that look like six +dollar values may be sold for two-fifty. He looked on in wide-eyed +horror while Sophy fitted a No. 5 C shoe on a 6 B foot and assured +the wearer that it looked like a made-to-order boot. He picked up +a pair of dull kid shoes and looked at them. His leather-wise eyes +saw much, and I think he would have taken his hat off the hook, and +his offended business principles out of the shop forever if Sophy +had not completed her purchase and strolled over to him at the +psychological moment. + +She smiled up at him, impudently. "Well, Pink Cheeks," she +said, "how do you like our little settlement by the lake, huh?" + +"These shoes aren't worth two-fifty," said Louie, indignation +in his voice. + +"Well, sure," replied Sophy. "I know it. What do you think +this is? A charity bazaar?" + +"But back home----" began Louie, hotly. + +"Ferget it, kid," said Sophy. "This is a big town, but it +ain't got no room for back-homers. Don't sour on one job till +you've got another nailed. You'll find yourself cuddling down on +a park bench if you do. Say, are you honestly from Oskaloosa?" + +"I certainly am," answered Louie, with pride. + +"My goodness!" ejaculated Sophy. "I never believed there was +no such place. Don't brag about it to the other fellows." + +"What time do you go out for lunch?" asked Louie. + +"What's it to you?" with the accent on the "to." + +"When I want to know a thing, I generally ask," explained +Louie, gently. + +Sophy looked at him--a long, keen, knowing look. "You'll +learn," she observed, thoughtfully. + +Louie did learn. He learned so much in that first week that +when Sunday came it seemed as though aeons had passed over his +head. He learned that the crime of murder was as nothing compared +to the crime of allowing a customer to depart shoeless; he learned +that the lunch hour was invented for the purpose of making dates; +that no one had ever heard of Oskaloosa, Iowa; that seven dollars +a week does not leave much margin for laundry and general reck- +lessness; that a madonna face above a V-cut gown is apt to distract +one's attention from shoes; that a hundred-dollar nest egg is as +effective in Chicago as a pine stick would be in propping up a +stone wall; and that all the other men clerks called Sophy +"sweetheart." + +Some of his newly acquired knowledge brought pain, as +knowledge is apt to do. + +He saw that State Street was crowded with Sophys during the +noon hour; girls with lovely faces under pitifully absurd hats. +Girls who aped the fashions of the dazzling creatures they saw +stepping from limousines. Girls who starved body and soul in order +to possess a set of false curls, or a pair of black satin shoes +with mother-o'-pearl buttons. Girls whose minds were bounded on +the north by the nickel theatres; on the east by "I sez to him"; on +the south by the gorgeous shop windows; and on the west by "He sez +t' me." + +Oh, I can't tell you how much Louie learned in that first week +while his eyes were getting accustomed to the shifting, jostling, +pushing, giggling, walking, talking throng. The city is justly +famed as a hot house of forced knowledge. + +One thing Louie could not learn. He could not bring himself +to accept the V in Sophy's dress. Louie's mother had been one of +the old-fashioned kind who wore a blue-and-white checked gingham +apron from 6 A.M. to 2 P.M., when she took it off to go downtown +and help the ladies of the church at the cake sale in the empty +window of the gas company's office, only to don it again when she +fried the potatoes for supper. Among other things she had taught +Louie to wipe his feet before coming in, to respect and help women, +and to change his socks often. + +After a month of Chicago Louie forgot the first lesson; had +more difficulty than I can tell you in reverencing a woman who only +said, "Aw, don't get fresh now!" when the other men put their arms +about her; and adhered to the third only after a struggle, in which +he had to do a small private washing in his own wash-bowl in the +evening. + +Sophy called him a stiff. His gravely courteous treatment of +her made her vaguely uncomfortable. She was past mistress in the +art of parrying insults and banter, but she had no reply ready for +Louie's boyish air of deference. It angered her for some +unreasonable woman-reason. + +There came a day when the V-cut dress brought them to open +battle. I think Sophy had appeared that morning minus the chain +and La Valliere. Frail and cheap as it was, it had been the only +barrier that separated Sophy from frank shamelessness. Louie's +outraged sense of propriety asserted itself. + +"Sophy," he stammered, during a quiet half-hour, "I'll call +for you and take you to the nickel show to-night if you'll promise +not to wear that dress. What makes you wear that kind of a get-up, +anyway?" + +"Dress?" queried Sophy, looking down at the shiny front +breadth of her frock. "Why? Don't you like it?" + +"Like it! No!" blurted Louie. + +"Don't yuh, rully! Deah me! Deah me! If I'd only knew that +this morning. As a gen'ral thing I wear white duck complete down +t' work, but I'm savin' my last two clean suits f'r gawlf." + +Louie ran an uncomfortable finger around the edge of his +collar, but he stood his ground. "It--it--shows your--neck so," he +objected, miserably. + +Sophy opened her great eyes wide. "Well, supposin' it does?" +she inquired, coolly. "It's a perfectly good neck, ain't it?" + +Louie, his face very red, took the plunge. "I don't know. I +guess so. But, Sophy, it--looks so--so--you know what I mean. I +hate to see the way the fellows rubber at you. Why don't you wear +those plain shirtwaist things, with high collars, like my mother +wears back home?" + +Sophy's teeth came together with a click. She laughed a short +cruel little laugh. "Say, Pink Cheeks, did yuh ever do a washin' +from seven to twelve, after you got home from work in the evenin'? +It's great! 'Specially when you're living in a six-by-ten room +with all the modern inconveniences, includin' no water except on +the third floor down. Simple! Say, a child could work it. All +you got to do, when you get home so tired your back teeth ache, is +to haul your water, an' soak your clothes, an' then rub 'em till +your hands peel, and rinse 'em, an' boil 'em, and blue 'em, an' +starch 'em. See? Just like that. Nothin' to it, kid. Nothin' to +it." + +Louie had been twisting his fingers nervously. Now his hands +shut themselves into fists. He looked straight into Sophy's angry +eyes. + +"I do know what it is," he said, quite simply. "There's been +a lot written and said about women's struggle with clothes. I +wonder why they've never said anything about the way a man has to +fight to keep up the thing they call appearances. God knows it's +pathetic enough to think of a girl like you bending over a tubful +of clothes. But when a man has to do it, it's a tragedy." + +"That's so," agreed Sophy. "When a girl gets shabby, and her +clothes begin t' look tacky she can take a gore or so out of her +skirt where it's the most wore, and catch it in at the bottom, and +call it a hobble. An' when her waist gets too soiled she can cover +up the front of it with a jabot, an' if her face is pretty enough +she can carry it off that way. But when a man is seedy, he's +seedy. He can't sew no ruffles on his pants." + +"I ran short last week, continued Louie. "That is, shorter +than usual. I hadn't the fifty cents to give to the woman. You +ought to see her! A little, gray-faced thing, with wisps of hair, +and no chest to speak of, and one of those mashed-looking black +hats. Nobody could have the nerve to ask her to wait for her +money. So I did my own washing. I haven't learned to wear soiled +clothes yet. I laughed fit to bust while I was doing it. +But--I'll bet my mother dreamed of me that night. The way they do, +you know, when something's gone wrong." + +Sophy, perched on the third rung of the sliding ladder, was +gazing at him. Her lips were parted slightly, and her cheeks were +very pink. On her face was a new, strange look, as of something +half forgotten. It was as though the spirit of +Sophy-as-she-might-have-been were inhabiting her soul for a brief +moment. At Louie's next words the look was gone. + +"Can't you sew something--a lace yoke--or whatever you call +'em--in that dress?" he persisted. + +"Aw, fade!" jeered Sophy. "When a girl's only got one dress +it's got to have some tong to it. Maybe this gown would cause a +wave of indignation in Oskaloosa, Iowa, but it don't even make a +ripple on State Street. It takes more than an aggravated Dutch +neck to make a fellow look at a girl these days. In a town like +this a girl's got to make a showin' some way. I'm my own stage +manager. They look at my dress first, an' grin. See? An' then +they look at my face. I'm like the girl in the story. Muh face is +muh fortune. It's earned me many a square meal; an' lemme tell +you, Pink Cheeks, eatin' square meals is one of my favorite pas- +times." + +"Say looka here!" bellowed the boss, wrathfully. "Just cut +out this here Romeo and Juliet act, will you! That there ladder +ain't for no balcony scene, understand. Here you, Louie, you +shinny up there and get down a pair of them brown satin pumps, +small size." + +Sophy continued to wear the black dress. The V-cut neck +seemed more flaunting than ever. + +It was two weeks later that Louie came in from lunch, his face +radiant. He was fifteen minutes late, but he listened to the +boss's ravings with a smile. + +"You grin like somebody handed you a ten-case note," commented +Sophy, with a woman's curiosity. "I guess you must of met some +rube from home when you was out t' lunch." + +"Better than that! Who do you think I bumped right into in +the elevator going down?" + +"Well, Brothah Bones," mimicked Sophy, who did you meet in the +elevator going down?" + +"I met a man named Ames. He used to travel for a big Boston +shoe house, and he made our town every few months. We got to be +good friends. I took him home for Sunday dinner once, and he said +it was the best dinner he'd had in months. You know how tired +those traveling men get of hotel grub." + +"Cut out the description and get down to action," snapped +Sophy. + +"Well, he knew me right away. And he made me go out to lunch +with him. A real lunch, starting with soup. Gee! It went big. +He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was working here, and +he opened his eyes, and then he laughed and said: `How did you get +into that joint?' Then he took me down to a swell little shoe shop +on State Street, and it turned out that he owns it. He introduced +me all around, and I'm going there to work next week. And wages! +Why say, it's almost a salary. A fellow can hold his head up in a +place like that." + +"When you leavin'?" asked Sophy, slowly. + +"Monday. Gee! it seems a year away." + +Sophy was late Saturday morning. When she came in, hurriedly, +her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes glowed. She took off her hat +and coat and fell to straightening boxes and putting out stock +without looking up. She took no part in the talk and jest that was +going on among the other clerks. One of the men, in search of the +missing mate to the shoe in his hand, came over to her, greeting +her carelessly. Then he stared. + +"Well, what do you know about this!" he called out to the +others, and laughed coarsely, "Look, stop, listen! Little Sophy +Bright Eyes here has pulled down the shades." + +Louie turned quickly. The immodest V of Sophy's gown was +filled with a black lace yoke that came up to the very lobes of her +little pink ears. She had got some scraps of lace from--Where do +they get those bits of rusty black? From some basement bargain +counter, perhaps, raked over during the lunch hour. There were +nine pieces in the front, and seven in the back. She had sat up +half the night putting them together so that when completed they +looked like one, if you didn't come too close. There is a certain +strain of Indian patience and ingenuity in women that no man has +ever been able to understand. + +Louie looked up and saw. His eyes met Sophy's. In his there +crept a certain exultant gleam, as of one who had fought for +something great and won. Sophy saw the look. The shy questioning +in her eyes was replaced by a spark of defiance. She tossed her +head, and turned to the man who had called attention to her +costume. + +"Who's loony now?" she jeered. "I always put in a yoke when +it gets along toward fall. My lungs is delicate. And anyway, I +see by the papers yesterday that collarless gowns is slightly +passay f'r winter." + + + + +IV + + +A BUSH LEAGUE HERO + +This is not a baseball story. The grandstand does not rise as one +man and shout itself hoarse with joy. There isn't a three-bagger +in the entire three thousand words, and nobody is carried home on +the shoulders of the crowd. For that sort of thing you need not +squander fifteen cents on your favorite magazine. The modest sum +of one cent will make you the possessor of a Pink 'Un. There you +will find the season's games handled in masterly fashion by a +six-best-seller artist, an expert mathematician, and an +original-slang humorist. No mere short story dub may hope to +compete with these. + +In the old days, before the gentry of the ring had learned the +wisdom of investing their winnings in solids instead of liquids, +this used to be a favorite conundrum: When is a prize-fighter not +a prize-fighter? + +Chorus: When he is tending bar. + +I rise to ask you Brothah Fan, when is a ball player not a +ball player? Above the storm of facetious replies I shout the +answer: + +When he's a shoe clerk. + +Any man who can look handsome in a dirty baseball suit is an +Adonis. There is something about the baggy pants, and the +Micawber-shaped collar, and the skull-fitting cap, and the foot or +so of tan, or blue, or pink undershirt sleeve sticking out at the +arms, that just naturally kills a man's best points. Then too, a +baseball suit requires so much in the matter of leg. Therefore, +when I say that Rudie Schlachweiler was a dream even in his +baseball uniform, with a dirty brown streak right up the side of +his pants where he had slid for base, you may know that the girls +camped on the grounds during the season. + +During the summer months our ball park is to us what the Grand +Prix is to Paris, or Ascot is to London. What care we that Evers +gets seven thousand a year (or is it a month?); or that Chicago's +new South-side ball park seats thirty-five thousand (or is it +million?). Of what interest are such meager items compared with +the knowledge that "Pug" Coulan, who plays short, goes with Undine +Meyers, the girl up there in the eighth row, with the pink dress +and the red roses on her hat? When "Pug" snatches a high one out +of the firmament we yell with delight, and even as we yell we turn +sideways to look up and see how Undine is taking it. Undine's +shining eyes are fixed on "Pug," and he knows it, stoops to brush +the dust off his dirt-begrimed baseball pants, takes an attitude of +careless grace and misses the next play. + +Our grand-stand seats almost two thousand, counting the boxes. +But only the snobs, and the girls with new hats, sit in the boxes. +Box seats are comfortable, it is true, and they cost only an +additional ten cents, but we have come to consider them +undemocratic, and unworthy of true fans. Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne, who +spends her winters in Egypt and her summers at the ball park, comes +out to the game every afternoon in her automobile, but she never +occupies a box seat; so why should we? She perches up in the +grand-stand with the rest of the enthusiasts, and when Kelly puts +one over she stands up and clinches her fists, and waves her arms +and shouts with the best of 'em. She has even been known to cry, +"Good eye! Good eye!" when things were at fever heat. The only +really blase individual in the ball park is Willie Grimes, who +peddles ice-cream cones. For that matter, I once saw Willie turn +a languid head to pipe, in his thin voice, "Give 'em a dark one, +Dutch! Give 'em a dark one!" + +Well, that will do for the firsh dash of local color. Now for +the story. + +Ivy Keller came home June nineteenth from Miss Shont's select +school for young ladies. By June twenty-first she was bored limp. +You could hardly see the plaits of her white tailored shirtwaist +for fraternity pins and secret society emblems, and her bedroom was +ablaze with college banners and pennants to such an extent that the +maid gave notice every Thursday--which was upstairs cleaning day. + +For two weeks after her return Ivy spent most of her time +writing letters and waiting for them, and reading the classics on +the front porch, dressed in a middy blouse and a blue skirt, with +her hair done in a curly Greek effect like the girls on the covers +of the Ladies' Magazine. She posed against the canvas bosom of the +porch chair with one foot under her, the other swinging free, +showing a tempting thing in beaded slipper, silk stocking, and what +the story writers call "slim ankle." + +On the second Saturday after her return her father came home +for dinner at noon, found her deep in Volume Two of "Les +Miserables." + +"Whew! This is a scorcher!" he exclaimed, and dropped down on +a wicker chair next to Ivy. Ivy looked at her father with languid +interest, and smiled a daughterly smile. Ivy's father was an +insurance man, alderman of his ward, president of the Civic +Improvement club, member of five lodges, and an habitual delegate. +It generally was he who introduced distinguished guests who spoke +at the opera house on Decoration Day. He called Mrs. Keller +"Mother," and he wasn't above noticing the fit of a gown on a +pretty feminine figure. He thought Ivy was an expurgated edition +of Lillian Russell, Madame De Stael, and Mrs. Pankburst. + +"Aren't you feeling well, Ivy?" he asked. "Looking a little +pale. It's the heat, I suppose. Gosh! Something smells good. +Run in and tell Mother I'm here." + +Ivy kept one slender finger between the leaves of her book. +"I'm perfectly well," she replied. "That must be beefsteak and +onions. Ugh!" And she shuddered, and went indoors. + +Dad Keller looked after her thoughtfully. Then he went in, +washed his hands, and sat down at table with Ivy and her mother. + +"Just a sliver for me," said Ivy, "and no onions." + +Her father put down his knife and fork, cleared his throat, +and spake, thus: + +"You get on your hat and meet me at the 2:45 inter-urban. +You're going to the ball game with me." + +"Ball game!" repeated Ivy. "I? But I'd----" + +"Yes, you do," interrupted her father. "You've been moping +around here looking a cross between Saint Cecilia and Little Eva +long enough. I don't care if you don't know a spitball from a +fadeaway when you see it. You'll be out in the air all afternoon, +and there'll be some excitement. All the girls go. You'll like +it. They're playing Marshalltown." + +Ivy went, looking the sacrificial lamb. Five minutes after +the game was called she pointed one tapering white finger in the +direction of the pitcher's mound. + +"Who's that?" she asked. + +"Pitcher," explained Papa Keller, laconically. Then, +patiently: "He throws the ball." + +"Oh," said Ivy. "What did you say his name was?" + +"I didn't say. But it's Rudie Schlachweiler. The boys call +him Dutch. Kind of a pet, Dutch is." + +"Rudie Schlachweiler!" murmured Ivy, dreamily. "What a strong +name!" + +"Want some peanuts?" inquired her father. + +"Does one eat peanuts at a ball game?" + +"It ain't hardly legal if you don't," Pa Keller assured her. + +"Two sacks," said Ivy. "Papa, why do they call it a diamond, +and what are those brown bags at the corners, and what does it +count if you hit the ball, and why do they rub their hands in the +dust and then--er--spit on them, and what salary does a pitcher +get, and why does the red-haired man on the other side dance around +like that between the second and third brown bag, and doesn't a +pitcher do anything but pitch, and wh----?" + +"You're on," said papa. + +After that Ivy didn't miss a game during all the time that the +team played in the home town. She went without a new hat, and +didn't care whether Jean Valjean got away with the goods or not, +and forgot whether you played third hand high or low in bridge. +She even became chummy with Undine Meyers, who wasn't her kind of +a girl at all. Undine was thin in a voluptuous kind of way, if +such a paradox can be, and she had red lips, and a roving eye, and +she ran around downtown without a hat more than was strictly +necessary. But Undine and Ivy had two subjects in common. They +were baseball and love. It is queer how the limelight will make +heroes of us all. + +Now "Pug" Coulan, who was red-haired, and had shoulders like +an ox, and arms that hung down to his knees, like those of an +orang-outang, slaughtered beeves at the Chicago stockyards in +winter. In the summer he slaughtered hearts. He wore mustard +colored shirts that matched his hair, and his baseball stockings +generally had a rip in them somewhere, but when he was on the +diamond we were almost ashamed to look at Undine, so wholly did her +heart shine in her eyes. + +Now, we'll have just another dash or two of local color. In +a small town the chances for hero worship are few. If it weren't +for the traveling men our girls wouldn't know whether stripes or +checks were the thing in gents' suitings. When the baseball season +opened the girls swarmed on it. Those that didn't understand +baseball pretended they did. When the team was out of town our +form of greeting was changed from, "Good-morning!" or "Howdy-do!" +to "What's the score?" Every night the results of the games +throughout the league were posted up on the blackboard in front of +Schlager's hardware store, and to see the way in which the crowd +stood around it, and streamed across the street toward it, you'd +have thought they were giving away gas stoves and hammock couches. + +Going home in the street car after the game the girls used to +gaze adoringly at the dirty faces of their sweat-begrimed heroes, +and then they'd rush home, have supper, change their dresses, do +their hair, and rush downtown past the Parker Hotel to mail their +letters. The baseball boys boarded over at the Griggs House, which +is third-class, but they used their tooth-picks, and held the +postmortem of the day's game out in front of the Parker Hotel, +which is our leading hostelry. The postoffice receipts record for +our town was broken during the months of June, July, and August. + +Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne started the trouble by having the team +over to dinner, "Pug" Coulan and all. After all, why not? No +foreign and impecunious princes penetrate as far inland as our +town. They get only as far as New York, or Newport, where they are +gobbled up by many-moneyed matrons. If Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne found +the supply of available lions limited, why should she not try to +content herself with a jackal or so? + +Ivy was asked. Until then she had contented herself with +gazing at her hero. She had become such a hardened baseball fan +that she followed the game with a score card, accurately jotting +down every play, and keeping her watch open on her knee. + +She sat next to Rudie at dinner. Before she had nibbled her +second salted almond, Ivy Keller and Rudie Schlachweiler understood +each other. Rudie illustrated certain plays by drawing lines on +the table-cloth with his knife and Ivy gazed, wide-eyed, and +allowed her soup to grow cold. + +The first night that Rudie called, Pa Keller thought it a +great joke. He sat out on the porch with Rudie and Ivy and talked +baseball, and got up to show Rudie how he could have got the goat +of that Keokuk catcher if only he had tried one of his famous +open-faced throws. Rudie looked politely interested, and laughed +in all the right places. But Ivy didn't need to pretend. Rudie +Schlachweiler spelled baseball to her. She did not think of her +caller as a good-looking young man in a blue serge suit and a white +shirtwaist. Even as he sat there she saw him as a blonde god +standing on the pitcher's mound, with the scars of battle on his +baseball pants, his left foot placed in front of him at right +angles with his right foot, his gaze fixed on first base in a +cunning effort to deceive the man at bat, in that favorite attitude +of pitchers just before they get ready to swing their left leg and +h'ist one over. + +The second time that Rudie called, Ma Keller said: + +"Ivy, I don't like that ball player coming here to see you. +The neighbors'll talk." + +The third time Rudie called, Pa Keller said: "What's that guy +doing here again?" + +The fourth time Rudie called, Pa Keller and Ma Keller said, in +unison: "This thing has got to stop." + +But it didn't. It had had too good a start. For the rest of +the season Ivy met her knight of the sphere around the corner. +Theirs was a walking courtship. They used to roam up as far as the +State road, and down as far as the river, and Rudie would fain have +talked of love, but Ivy talked of baseball. + +"Darling," Rudie would murmur, pressing Ivy's arm closer, +"when did you first begin to care?" + +"Why I liked the very first game I saw when Dad----" + +"I mean, when did you first begin to care for me?" + +"Oh! When you put three men out in that game with +Marshalltown when the teams were tied in the eighth inning. +Remember? Say, Rudie dear, what was the matter with your arm +to-day? You let three men walk, and Albia's weakest hitter got a +home run out of you." + +"Oh, forget baseball for a minute, Ivy! Let's talk about +something else. Let's talk about--us." + +"Us? Well, you're baseball, aren't you?" retorted Ivy. "And +if you are, I am. Did you notice the way that Ottumwa man pitched +yesterday? He didn't do any acting for the grandstand. He didn't +reach up above his head, and wrap his right shoulder with his left +toe, and swing his arm three times and then throw seven inches +outside the plate. He just took the ball in his hand, looked at it +curiously for a moment, and fired it--zing!--like that, over the +plate. I'd get that ball if I were you." + +"Isn't this a grand night?" murmured Rudie. + +"But they didn't have a hitter in the bunch," went on Ivy. +"And not a man in the team could run. That's why they're +tail-enders. Just the same, that man on the mound was a wizard, +and if he had one decent player to give him some support----" + +Well, the thing came to a climax. One evening, two weeks +before the close of the season, Ivy put on her hat and announced +that she was going downtown to mail her letters. + +"Mail your letters in the daytime," growled Papa Keller. + +"I didn't have time to-day," answered Ivy. "It was a thirteen +inning game, and it lasted until six o'clock." + +It was then that Papa Keller banged the heavy fist of decision +down on the library table. + +"This thing's got to stop!" he thundered. "I won't have any +girl of mine running the streets with a ball player, understand? +Now you quit seeing this seventy-five-dollars-a-month bush leaguer +or leave this house. I mean it." + +"All right," said Ivy, with a white-hot calm. "I'll leave. +I can make the grandest kind of angel-food with marshmallow icing, +and you know yourself my fudges can't be equaled. He'll be playing +in the major leagues in three years. Why just yesterday there was +a strange man at the game--a city man, you could tell by his +hat-band, and the way his clothes were cut. He stayed through the +whole game, and never took his eyes off Rudie. I just know he was +a scout for the Cubs." + +"Probably a hardware drummer, or a fellow that Schlachweiler +owes money to." + +Ivy began to pin on her hat. A scared look leaped into Papa +Keller's eyes. He looked a little old, too, and drawn, at that +minute. He stretched forth a rather tremulous hand. + +"Ivy-girl," he said. + +"What?" snapped Ivy. + +"Your old father's just talking for your own good. You're +breaking your ma's heart. You and me have been good pals, haven't +we?" + +"Yes," said Ivy, grudgingly, and without looking up. + +"Well now, look here. I've got a proposition to make to you. +The season's over in two more weeks. The last week they play out +of town. Then the boys'll come back for a week or so, just to hang +around town and try to get used to the idea of leaving us. Then +they'll scatter to take up their winter jobs-cutting ice, most of +'em," he added, grimly. + +"Mr. Schlachweiler is employed in a large establishment in +Slatersville, Ohio," said Ivy, with dignity. "He regards baseball +as his profession, and he cannot do anything that would affect his +pitching arm." + +Pa Keller put on the tremolo stop and brought a misty look +into his eyes. + +"Ivy, you'll do one last thing for your old father, won't +you?" + +"Maybe," answered Ivy, coolly. + +"Don't make that fellow any promises. Now wait a minute! Let +me get through. I won't put any crimp in your plans. I won't +speak to Schlachweiler. Promise you won't do anything rash until +the ball season's over. Then we'll wait just one month, see? Till +along about November. Then if you feel like you want to see +him----" + +"But how----" + +"Hold on. You mustn't write to him, or see him, or let him +write to you during that time, see? Then, if you feel the way you +do now, I'll take you to Slatersville to see him. Now that's fair, +ain't it? Only don't let him know you're coming." + +" M-m-m-yes," said Ivy. + +"Shake hands on it." She did. Then she left the room with a +rush, headed in the direction of her own bedroom. Pa Keller +treated himself to a prodigious wink and went out to the vegetable +garden in search of Mother. + +The team went out on the road, lost five games, won two, and +came home in fourth place. For a week they lounged around the +Parker Hotel and held up the street corners downtown, took many +farewell drinks, then, slowly, by ones and twos, they left for the +packing houses, freight depots, and gents' furnishing stores from +whence they came. + +October came in with a blaze of sumac and oak leaves. Ivy +stayed home and learned to make veal loaf and apple pies. The +worry lines around Pa Keller's face began to deepen. Ivy said that +she didn't believe that she cared to go back to Miss Shont's select +school for young ladies. + +October thirty-first came. + +"We'll take the eight-fifteen to-morrow," said her father to +Ivy. + +"All right," said Ivy. + +"Do you know where he works?" asked he. + +"No," answered Ivy. + +"That'll be all right. I took the trouble to look him up last +August." + +The short November afternoon was drawing to its close (as our +best talent would put it) when Ivy and her father walked along the +streets of Slatersville. (I can't tell you what streets, because +I don't know.) Pa Keller brought up before a narrow little shoe +shop. + +"Here we are," he said, and ushered Ivy in. A short, stout, +proprietary figure approached them smiling a mercantile smile. + +"What can I do for you?" he inquired. + +Ivy's eyes searched the shop for a tall, golden-haired form in +a soiled baseball suit. + +"We'd like to see a gentleman named Schlachweiler--Rudolph +Schlachweiler," said Pa Keller. + +"Anything very special?" inquired the proprietor. +"He's--rather busy just now. Wouldn't anybody else do? Of course, +if----" + +"No," growled Keller. + +The boss turned. "Hi! Schlachweiler!" he bawled toward the +rear of the dim little shop. + +"Yessir," answered a muffled voice. + +"Front!" yelled the boss, and withdrew to a safe listening +distance. + +A vaguely troubled look lurked in the depths of Ivy's eyes. +From behind the partition of the rear of the shop emerged a tall +figure. It was none other than our hero. He was in his shirt- +sleeves, and he struggled into his coat as he came forward, wiping +his mouth with the back of his hand, hurriedly, and swallowing. + +I have said that the shop was dim. Ivy and her father stood +at one side, their backs to the light. Rudie came forward, rubbing +his hands together in the manner of clerks. + +"Something in shoes?" he politely inquired. Then he saw. + +"Ivy!--ah--Miss Keller!" he exclaimed. Then, awkwardly: +"Well, how-do, Mr. Keller. I certainly am glad to see you both. +How's the old town? What are you doing in Slatersville?" + +"Why--Ivy----" began Pa Keller, blunderingly. + +But Ivy clutched his arm with a warning hand. The vaguely +troubled look in her eyes had become wildly so. + +"Schlachweiler!" shouted the voice of the boss. "Customers!" +and he waved a hand in the direction of the fitting benches. + +"All right, sir," answered Rudie. "Just a minute." + +"Dad had to come on business," said Ivy, hurriedly. "And he +brought me with him. I'm--I'm on my way to school in Cleveland, +you know. Awfully glad to have seen you again. We must go. That +lady wants her shoes, I'm sure, and your employer is glaring at us. +Come, dad." + +At the door she turned just in time to see Rudie removing the +shoe from the pudgy foot of the fat lady customer. + + +We'll take a jump of six months. That brings us into the lap +of April. + +Pa Keller looked up from his evening paper. Ivy, home for the +Easter vacation, was at the piano. Ma Keller was sewing. + +Pa Keller cleared his throat. "I see by the paper," he +announced, "that Schlachweiler's been sold to Des Moines. Too bad +we lost him. He was a great little pitcher, but he played in bad +luck. Whenever he was on the slab the boys seemed to give him poor +support." + +"Fudge!" exclaimed Ivy, continuing to play, but turning a +spirited face toward her father. "What piffle! Whenever a player +pitches rotten ball you'll always hear him howling about the +support he didn't get. Schlachweiler was a bum pitcher. Anybody +could hit him with a willow wand, on a windy day, with the sun in +his eyes." + + + + + +V + + +THE KITCHEN SIDE OF THE DOOR + +The City was celebrating New Year's Eve. +Spelled thus, with a capital C, know it can mean but New York. +In the Pink Fountain room of the Newest Hotel all those grand old +forms and customs handed down to us for the occasion were being +rigidly observed in all their original quaintness. The Van Dyked +man who looked like a Russian Grand Duke (he really was a +chiropodist) had drunk champagne out of the pink satin slipper of +the lady who behaved like an actress (she was forelady at Schmaus' +Wholesale Millinery, eighth floor). The two respectable married +ladies there in the corner had been kissed by each other's +husbands. The slim, Puritan-faced woman in white, with her black +hair so demurely parted and coiled in a sleek knot, had risen +suddenly from her place and walked indolently to the edge of the +plashing pink fountain in the center of the room, had stood +contemplating its shallows with a dreamy half-smile on her lips, +and then had lifted her slim legs slowly and gracefully over its +fern-fringed basin and had waded into its chilling midst, trailing +her exquisite white satin and chiffon draperies after her, and +scaring the goldfish into fits. The loudest scream of approbation +had come from the yellow-haired, loose-lipped youth who had made +the wager, and lost it. The heavy blonde in the inevitable violet +draperies showed signs of wanting to dance on the table. Her +companion--a structure made up of layer upon layer, and fold upon +fold of flabby tissue--knew all the waiters by their right names, +and insisted on singing with the orchestra and beating time with a +rye roll. The clatter of dishes was giving way to the clink of +glasses. + +In the big, bright kitchen back, of the Pink Fountain room +Miss Gussie Fink sat at her desk, calm, watchful, insolent-eyed, a +goddess sitting in judgment. On the pay roll of the Newest Hotel +Miss Gussie Fink's name appeared as kitchen checker, but her +regular job was goddessing. Her altar was a high desk in a corner +of the busy kitchen, and it was an altar of incense, of +burnt-offerings, and of showbread. Inexorable as a goddess of the +ancients was Miss Fink, and ten times as difficult to appease. For +this is the rule of the Newest Hotel, that no waiter may carry his +laden tray restaurantward until its contents have been viewed and +duly checked by the eye and hand of Miss Gussie Fink, or her +assistants. Flat upon the table must go every tray, off must go +each silver dish-cover, lifted must be each napkin to disclose its +treasure of steaming corn or hot rolls. Clouds of incense rose +before Miss Gussie Fink and she sniffed it unmoved, her eyes, +beneath level brows, regarding savory broiler or cunning ice with +equal indifference, appraising alike lobster cocktail or onion +soup, traveling from blue points to brie. Things a la and things +glace were all one to her. Gazing at food was Miss Gussie Fink's +occupation, and just to see the way she regarded a boneless squab +made you certain that she never ate. + +In spite of the I-don't-know-how-many (see ads) New Year's Eve +diners for whom food was provided that night, the big, busy kitchen +was the most orderly, shining, spotless place imaginable. But Miss +Gussie Fink was the neatest, most immaculate object in all that +great, clean room. There was that about her which suggested +daisies in a field, if you know what I mean. This may have been +due to the fact that her eyes were brown while her hair was gold, +or it may have been something about the way her collars fitted +high, and tight, and smooth, or the way her close white sleeves +came down to meet her pretty hands, or the way her shining hair +sprang from her forehead. Also the smooth creaminess of her clear +skin may have had something to do with it. But privately, I think +it was due to the way she wore her shirtwaists. Miss Gussie Fink +could wear a starched white shirtwaist under a close-fitting winter +coat, remove the coat, run her right forefinger along her collar's +edge and her left thumb along the back of her belt and disclose to +the admiring world a blouse as unwrinkled and unsullied as though +it had just come from her own skilful hands at the ironing board. +Miss Gussie Fink was so innately, flagrantly, beautifully +clean-looking that--well, there must be a stop to this description. + +She was the kind of girl you'd like to see behind the counter of +your favorite delicatessen, knowing that you need not shudder as +her fingers touch your Sunday night supper slices of tongue, and +Swiss cheese, and ham. No girl had ever dreamed of refusing to +allow Gussie to borrow her chamois for a second. + +To-night Miss Fink had come on at 10 P.M., which was just two +hours later than usual. She knew that she was to work until 6 +A.M., which may have accounted for the fact that she displayed very +little of what the fans call ginger as she removed her hat and coat +and hung them on the hook behind the desk. The prospect of that +all-night, eight-hour stretch may have accounted for it, I say. +But privately, and entre nous, it didn't. For here you must know +of Heiny. Heiny, alas! now Henri. + +Until two weeks ago Henri had been Heiny and Miss Fink had +been Kid. When Henri had been Heiny he had worked in the kitchen +at many things, but always with a loving eye on Miss Gussie Fink. +Then one wild night there had been a waiters' strike--wages or +hours or tips or all three. In the confusion that followed Heiny +had been pressed into service and a chopped coat. He had fitted +into both with unbelievable nicety, proving that waiters are born, +not made. Those little tricks and foibles that are characteristic +of the genus waiter seemed to envelop him as though a fairy garment +had fallen upon his shoulders. The folded napkin under his left +arm seemed to have been placed there by nature, so perfectly did it +fit into place. The ghostly tread, the little whisking skip, the +half-simper, the deferential bend that had in it at the same time +something of insolence, all were there; the very "Yes, miss," and +"Very good, sir," rose automatically and correctly to his untrained +lips. Cinderella rising resplendent from her ash-strewn hearth was +not more completely transformed than Heiny in his role of Henri. +And with the transformation Miss Gussie Fink had been left behind +her desk disconsolate. + +Kitchens are as quick to seize upon these things and gossip +about them as drawing rooms are. And because Miss Gussie Fink had +always worn a little air of aloofness to all except Heiny, the +kitchen was the more eager to make the most of its morsel. Each +turned it over under his tongue--Tony, the Crook, whom Miss Fink +had scorned; Francois, the entree cook, who often forgot he was +married; Miss Sweeney, the bar-checker, who was jealous of Miss +Fink's complexion. Miss Fink heard, and said nothing. She only +knew that there would be no dear figure waiting for her when the +night's work was done. For two weeks now she had put on her hat +and coat and gone her way at one o'clock alone. She discovered +that to be taken home night after night under Heiny's tender escort +had taught her a ridiculous terror of the streets at night now that +she was without protection. Always the short walk from the car to +the flat where Miss Fink lived with her mother had been a glorious, +star-lit, all too brief moment. Now it was an endless and +terrifying trial, a thing of shivers and dread, fraught with horror +of passing the alley just back of Cassidey's buffet. There had +even been certain little half-serious, half-jesting talks about the +future into which there had entered the subject of a little +delicatessen and restaurant in a desirable neighborhood, with Heiny +in the kitchen, and a certain blonde, neat, white-shirtwaisted +person in charge of the desk and front shop. + +She and her mother had always gone through a little formula +upon Miss Fink's return from work. They never used it now. +Gussie's mother was a real mother--the kind that wakes up when you +come home. + +"That you, Gussie?" Ma Fink would call from the bedroom, at +the sound of the key in the lock. + +"It's me, ma." + +"Heiny bring you home?" + +"Sure," happily. + +"There's a bit of sausage left, and some pie if----" + +"Oh, I ain't hungry. We stopped at Joey's downtown and had a +cup of coffee and a ham on rye. Did you remember to put out the +milk bottle?" + +For two weeks there had been none of that. Gussie had learned +to creep silently into bed, and her mother, being a mother, feigned +sleep. + +To-night at her desk Miss Gussie Fink seemed a shade cooler, +more self-contained, and daisylike than ever. From somewhere at +the back of her head she could see that Heiny was avoiding her desk +and was using the services of the checker at the other end of the +room. And even as the poison of this was eating into her heart she +was tapping her forefinger imperatively on the desk before her and +saying to Tony, the Crook: + +"Down on the table with that tray, Tony--flat. This may be a +busy little New Year's Eve, but you can't come any of your +sleight-of-hand stuff on me." For Tony had a little trick of +concealing a dollar-and-a-quarter sirloin by the simple method of +slapping the platter close to the underside of his tray and holding +it there with long, lean fingers outspread, the entire bit of +knavery being concealed in the folds of a flowing white napkin in +the hand that balanced the tray. Into Tony's eyes there came a +baleful gleam. His lean jaw jutted out threateningly. + +"You're the real Weissenheimer kid, ain't you?" he sneered. +"Never mind. I'll get you at recess." + +"Some day," drawled Miss Fink, checking the steak, "the +house'll get wise to your stuff and then you'll have to go back to +the coal wagon. I know so much about you it's beginning to make me +uncomfortable. I hate to carry around a burden of crime." + +"You're a sorehead because Heiny turned you down and now----" + +"Move on there!" snapped Miss Fink, "or I'll call the steward +to settle you. Maybe he'd be interested to know that you've been +counting in the date and your waiter's number, and adding 'em in at +the bottom of your check." + +Tony, the Crook, turned and skimmed away toward the +dining-room, but the taste of victory was bitter in Miss Fink's +mouth. + +Midnight struck. There came from the direction of the Pink +Fountain Room a clamor and din which penetrated the thickness of +the padded doors that separated the dining-room from the kitchen +beyond. The sound rose and swelled above the blare of the +orchestra. Chairs scraped on the marble floor as hundreds rose to +their feet. The sound of clinking glasses became as the jangling +of a hundred bells. There came the sharp spat of hand-clapping, +then cheers, yells, huzzas. Through the swinging doors at the end +of the long passageway Miss Fink could catch glimpses of dazzling +color, of shimmering gowns, of bare arms uplifted, of flowers, and +plumes, and jewels, with the rosy light of the famed pink fountain +casting a gracious glow over all. Once she saw a tall young fellow +throw his arm about the shoulder of a glorious creature at the next +table, and though the door swung shut before she could see it, Miss +Fink knew that he had kissed her. + +There were no New Year's greetings in the kitchen back of the +Pink Fountain Room. It was the busiest moment in all that busy +night. The heat of the ovens was so intense that it could be felt +as far as Miss Fink's remote corner. The swinging doors between +dining-room and kitchen were never still. A steady stream of +waiters made for the steam tables before which the white-clad chefs +stood ladling, carving, basting, serving, gave their orders, +received them, stopped at the checking-desk, and sped +dining-roomward again. Tony, the Crook, was cursing at one of the +little Polish vegetable girls who had not been quick enough about +the garnishing of a salad, and she was saying, over and over again, +in her thick tongue: + +"Aw, shod op yur mout'!" + +The thud-thud of Miss Fink's checking-stamp kept time to +flying footsteps, but even as her practised eye swept over the tray +before her she saw the steward direct Henri toward her desk, just +as he was about to head in the direction of the minor +checking-desk. Beneath downcast lids she saw him coming. There +was about Henri to-night a certain radiance, a sort of electrical +elasticity, so nimble, so tireless, so exuberant was he. In the +eyes of Miss Gussie Fink he looked heartbreakingly handsome in his +waiter's uniform--handsome, distinguished, remote, and infinitely +desirable. And just behind him, revenge in his eye, came Tony. + +The flat surface of the desk received Henri's tray. Miss Fink +regarded it with a cold and business-like stare. Henri whipped his +napkin from under his left arm and began to remove covers, +dexterously. Off came the first silver, dome-shaped top. + +"Guinea hen," said Henri. + +"I seen her lookin' at you when you served the little necks," +came from Tony, as though continuing a conversation begun in some +past moment of pause, "and she's some lovely doll, believe me." + +Miss Fink scanned the guinea hen thoroughly, but with a +detached air, and selected the proper stamp from the box at her +elbow. Thump! On the broad pasteboard sheet before her appeared +the figures $1.75 after Henri's number. + +"Think so?" grinned Henri, and removed another cover. "One +candied sweets." + +"I bet some day we'll see you in the Sunday papers, Heiny," +went on Tony, "with a piece about handsome waiter runnin' away with +beautiful s'ciety girl. Say; you're too perfect even for a +waiter." + +Thump! Thirty cents. + +"Quit your kiddin'," said the flattered Henri. "One endive, +French dressing." + +Thump!" Next!" said Miss Fink, dispassionately, yawned, and +smiled fleetingly at the entree cook who wasn't looking her way. +Then, as Tony slid his tray toward her: "How's business, Tony? +H'm? How many two-bit cigar bands have you slipped onto your own +private collection of nickel straights and made a twenty-cent +rake-off?" + +But there was a mist in the bright brown eyes as Tony the +Crook turned away with his tray. In spite of the satisfaction of +having had the last word, Miss Fink knew in her heart that Tony had +"got her at recess," as he had said he would. + +Things were slowing up for Miss Fink. The stream of hurrying +waiters was turned in the direction of the kitchen bar now. From +now on the eating would be light, and the drinking heavy. Miss +Fink, with time hanging heavy, found herself blinking down at the +figures stamped on the pasteboard sheet before her, and in spite of +the blinking, two marks that never were intended for a checker's +report splashed down just over the $1.75 after Henri's number. A +lovely doll! And she had gazed at Heiny. Well, that was to be +expected. No woman could gaze unmoved upon Heiny. "A lovely +doll--" + +"Hi, Miss Fink!" it was the steward's voice. "We need you +over in the bar to help Miss Sweeney check the drinks. They're +coming too swift for her. The eating will be light from now on; +just a little something salty now and then." + +So Miss Fink dabbed covertly at her eyes and betook herself +out of the atmosphere of roasting, and broiling, and frying, and +stewing; away from the sight of great copper kettles, and glowing +coals and hissing pans, into a little world fragrant with mint, +breathing of orange and lemon peel, perfumed with pineapple, +redolent of cinnamon and clove, reeking with things spirituous. +Here the splutter of the broiler was replaced by the hiss of the +siphon, and the pop-pop of corks, and the tinkle and clink of ice +against glass. + +"Hello, dearie!" cooed Miss Sweeney, in greeting, staring hard +at the suspicious redness around Miss Fink's eyelids. "Ain't you +sweet to come over here in the headache department and help me out! +Here's the wine list. You'll prob'ly need it. Say, who do you +suppose invented New Year's Eve? They must of had a imagination +like a Greek 'bus boy. I'm limp as a rag now, and it's only +two-thirty. I've got a regular cramp in my wrist from checkin' +quarts. Say, did you hear about Heiny's crowd?" + +"No," said Miss Fink, evenly, and began to study the first +page of the wine list under the heading "Champagnes of Noted +Vintages." + +"Well," went on Miss Sweeney's little thin, malicious voice, +"he's fell in soft. There's a table of three, and they're drinkin' +1874 Imperial Crown at twelve dollars per, like it was Waukesha +ale. And every time they finish a bottle one of the guys pays for +it with a brand new ten and a brand new five and tells Heiny to +keep the change. Can you beat it?" + +"I hope," said Miss Fink, pleasantly, "that the supply of 1874 +will hold out till morning. I'd hate to see them have to come down +to ten dollar wine. Here you, Tony! Come back here! I may be a +new hand in this department but I'm not so green that you can put +a gold label over on me as a yellow label. Notice that I'm +checking you another fifty cents." + +"Ain't he the grafter!" laughed Miss Sweeney. She leaned +toward Miss Fink and lowered her voice discreetly. "Though I'll +say this for'm. If you let him get away with it now an' then, +he'll split even with you. H'm? O, well, now, don't get so high +and mighty. The management expects it in this department. That's +why they pay starvation wages." + +An unusual note of color crept into Miss Gussie Fink's smooth +cheek. It deepened and glowed as Heiny darted around the corner +and up to the bar. There was about him an air of suppressed +excitement -- suppressed, because Heiny was too perfect a waiter to +display emotion. + +"Not another!" chanted the bartenders, in chorus. + +"Yes," answered Henri, solemnly, and waited while the wine +cellar was made to relinquish another rare jewel. + +"O, you Heiny!" called Miss Sweeney, "tell us what she looks +like. If I had time I'd take a peek myself. From what Tony says +she must look something like Maxine Elliot, only brighter." + +Henri turned. He saw Miss Fink. A curious little expression +came into his eyes--a Heiny look, it might have been called, as he +regarded his erstwhile sweetheart's unruffled attire, and clear +skin, and steady eye and glossy hair. She was looking past him in +that baffling, maddening way that angry women have. Some of +Henri's poise seemed to desert him in that moment. He appeared a +shade less debonair as he received the precious bottle from the +wine man's hands. He made for Miss Fink's desk and stood watching +her while she checked his order. At the door he turned and looked +over his shoulder at Miss Sweeney. + +"Some time," he said, deliberately, "when there's no ladies +around, I'll tell you what I think she looks like." + +And the little glow of color in Miss Gussic Fink's smooth +cheek became a crimson flood that swept from brow to throat. + +"Oh, well," snickered Miss Sweeney, to hide her own +discomfiture, "this is little Heiny's first New Year's Eve in the +dining-room. Honest, I b'lieve he's shocked. He don't realize +that celebratin' New Year's Eve is like eatin' oranges. You got to +let go your dignity t' really enjoy 'em." + +Three times more did Henri enter and demand a bottle of the +famous vintage, and each time he seemed a shade less buoyant. His +elation diminished as his tips grew greater until, as he drew up at +the bar at six o'clock, he seemed wrapped in impenetrable gloom. + +"Them hawgs sousin' yet?" shrilled Miss Sweeney. She and Miss +Fink had climbed down from their high stools, and were preparing to +leave. Henri nodded, drearily, and disappeared in the direction of +the Pink Fountain Room. + +Miss Fink walked back to her own desk in the corner near the +dining-room door. She took her hat off the hook, and stood +regarding it, thoughtfully. Then, with a little air of decision, +she turned and walked swiftly down the passageway that separated +dining-room from kitchen. Tillie, the scrub-woman, was down on her +hands and knees in one corner of the passage. She was one of a +small army of cleaners that had begun the work of clearing away the +debris of the long night's revel. Miss Fink lifted her neat skirts +high as she tip-toed through the little soapy pool that followed in +the wake of Tillie, the scrub-woman. She opened the swinging doors +a cautious little crack and peered in. What she saw was not +pretty. If the words sordid and bacchanalian had been part of Miss +Fink's vocabulary they would have risen to her lips then. The +crowd had gone. The great room contained not more than half a +dozen people. Confetti littered the floor. Here and there a +napkin, crushed and bedraggled into an unrecognizable ball, lay +under a table. From an overturned bottle the dregs were dripping +drearily. The air was stale, stifling, poisonous. + +At a little table in the center of the room Henri's three were +still drinking. They were doing it in a dreadful and businesslike +way. There were two men and one woman. The faces of all three +were mahogany colored and expressionless. There was about them an +awful sort of stillness. Something in the sight seemed to sicken +Gussie Fink. It came to her that the wintry air outdoors must be +gloriously sweet, and cool, and clean in contrast to this. She was +about to turn away, with a last look at Heiny yawning behind his +hand, when suddenly the woman rose unsteadily to her feet, +balancing herself with her finger tips on the table. She raised +her head and stared across the room with dull, unseeing eyes, and +licked her lips with her tongue. Then she turned and walked half +a dozen paces, screamed once with horrible shrillness, and crashed +to the floor. She lay there in a still, crumpled heap, the folds +of her exquisite gown rippling to meet a little stale pool of wine +that had splashed from some broken glass. Then this happened. +Three people ran toward the woman on the floor, and two people ran +past her and out of the room. The two who ran away were the men +with whom she had been drinking, and they were not seen again. The +three who ran toward her were Henri, the waiter, Miss Gussie Fink, +checker, and Tillie, the scrub-woman. Henri and Miss Fink reached +her first. Tillie, the scrub-woman, was a close third. Miss +Gussie Fink made as though to slip her arm under the poor bruised +head, but Henri caught her wrist fiercely (for a waiter) and pulled +her to her feet almost roughly. + +"You leave her alone, Kid," he commanded. + +Miss Gussie Fink stared, indignation choking her utterance. +And as she stared the fierce light in Henri's eyes was replaced by +the light of tenderness. + +"We'll tend to her," said Henri; "she ain't fit for you to +touch. I wouldn't let you soil your hands on such truck." And +while Gussie still stared he grasped the unconscious woman by the +shoulders, while another waiter grasped her ankles, with Tillie, +the scrub-woman, arranging her draperies pityingly around her, and +together they carried her out of the dining-room to a room beyond. + +Back in the kitchen Miss Gussie Fink was preparing to don her +hat, but she was experiencing some difficulty because of the way in +which her fingers persisted in trembling. Her face was turned +away from the swinging doors, but she knew when Henri came in. He +stood just behind her, in silence. When she turned to face him she +found Henri looking at her, and as he looked all the Heiny in him +came to the surface and shone in his eyes. He looked long and +silently at Miss Gussie Fink--at the sane, simple, wholesomeness of +her, at her clear brown eyes, at her white forehead from which the +shining hair sprang away in such a delicate line, at her +immaculately white shirtwaist, and her smooth, snug-fitting collar +that came up to the lobes of her little pink ears, at her creamy +skin, at her trim belt. He looked as one who would rest his +eyes--eyes weary of gazing upon satins, and jewels, and rouge, and +carmine, and white arms, and bosoms. + +"Gee, Kid! You look good to me," he said. + +"Do I--Heiny?" whispered Miss Fink. + +"Believe me!" replied Heiny, fervently. "It was just a case +of swelled head. Forget it, will you? Say, that gang in there +to-night--why, say, that gang----" + +"I know," interrupted Miss Fink. + +"Going home?" asked Heiny. + +"Yes." + +"Suppose we have a bite of something to eat first," suggested +Heiny. + +Miss Fink glanced round the great, deserted kitchen. As she +gazed a little expression of disgust wrinkled her pretty nose--the +nose that perforce had sniffed the scent of so many rare and +exquisite dishes. + +"Sure," she assented, joyously, "but not here. Let's go +around the corner to Joey's. I could get real chummy with a cup of +good hot coffee and a ham on rye." + +He helped her on with her coat, and if his hands rested a +moment on her shoulders who was there to see it? A few sleepy, +wan-eyed waiters and Tillie, the scrub-woman. Together they +started toward the door. Tillie, the scrubwoman, had worked her +wet way out of the passage and into the kitchen proper. She and +her pail blocked their way. She was sopping up a soapy pool with +an all-encompassing gray scrub-rag. Heiny and Gussie stopped a +moment perforce to watch her. It was rather fascinating to see how +that artful scrub-rag craftily closed in upon the soapy pool until +it engulfed it. Tillie sat back on her knees to wring out the +water-soaked rag. There was something pleasing in the sight. +Tillie's blue calico was faded white in patches and at the knees it +was dark with soapy water. Her shoes were turned up ludicrously at +the toes, as scrub-women's shoes always are. Tillie's thin hair +was wadded back into a moist knob at the back and skewered with a +gray-black hairpin. From her parboiled, shriveled fingers to her +ruddy, perspiring face there was nothing of grace or beauty about +Tillie. And yet Heiny found something pleasing there. He could +not have told you why, so how can I, unless to say that it was, +perhaps, for much the same reason that we rejoice in the wholesome, +safe, reassuring feel of the gray woolen blanket on our bed when we +wake from a horrid dream. + +"A Happy New Year to you," said Heiny gravely, and took his +hand out of his pocket. + +Tillie's moist right hand closed over something. She smiled +so that one saw all her broken black teeth. + +"The same t' you," said Tillie. "The same t' you." + + + + + +VI + + +ONE OF THE OLD GIRLS + +All of those ladies who end their conversation with you by wearily +suggesting that you go down to the basement to find what you seek, +do not receive a meager seven dollars a week as a reward for their +efforts. Neither are they all obliged to climb five weary flights +of stairs to reach the dismal little court room which is their +home, and there are several who need not walk thirty-three blocks +to save carfare, only to spend wretched evenings washing out +handkerchiefs and stockings in the cracked little washbowl, while +one ear is cocked for the stealthy tread of the Lady Who Objects. + +The earnest compiler of working girls' budgets would pass +Effie Bauer hurriedly by. Effie's budget bulged here and there +with such pathetic items as hand-embroidered blouses, thick club +steaks, and parquet tickets for Maude Adams. That you may +visualize her at once I may say that Effie looked twenty-four--from +the rear (all women do in these days of girlish simplicity in hats +and tailor-mades); her skirts never sagged, her shirtwaists were +marvels of plainness and fit, and her switch had cost her sixteen +dollars, wholesale (a lady friend in the business). Oh, there was +nothing tragic about Effie. She had a plump, assured style, a keen +blue eye, a gift of repartee, and a way of doing her hair so that +the gray at the sides scarcely showed at all. Also a knowledge of +corsets that had placed her at the buying end of that important +department at Spiegel's. Effie knew to the minute when coral beads +went out and pearl beads came in, and just by looking at her +blouses you could tell when Cluny died and Irish was born. Meeting +Effie on the street, you would have put her down as one of the many +well-dressed, prosperous-looking women shoppers--if you hadn't +looked at her feet. Veteran clerks and policemen cannot disguise +their feet. + +Effie Bauer's reason for not marrying when a girl was the same +as that of most of the capable, wise-eyed, good-looking women one +finds at the head of departments. She had not had a chance. If +Effie had been as attractive at twenty as she was at--there, we +won't betray confidences. Still, it is certain that if Effie had +been as attractive when a young girl as she was when an old girl, +she never would have been an old girl and head of Spiegel's corset +department at a salary of something very comfortably over one +hundred and twenty-five a month (and commissions). Effie had +improved with the years, and ripened with experience. She knew her +value. At twenty she had been pale, anaemic and bony, with a +startled-faun manner and bad teeth. Years of saleswomanship had +broadened her, mentally and physically, until she possessed a wide +and varied knowledge of that great and diversified subject known as +human nature. She knew human nature all the way from the fifty- +nine-cent girdles to the twenty-five-dollar made-to-orders. And if +the years had brought, among other things, a certain hardness about +the jaw and a line or two at the corners of the eyes, it was not +surprising. You can't rub up against the sharp edges of this world +and expect to come out without a scratch or so. + +So much for Effie. Enter the hero. Webster defines a hero in +romance as the person who has the principal share in the +transactions related. He says nothing which would debar a +gentleman just because he may be a trifle bald and in the habit of +combing his hair over the thin spot, and he raises no objections to +a matter of thickness and color in the region of the back of the +neck. Therefore Gabe I. Marks qualifies. Gabe was the gentleman +about whom Effie permitted herself to be guyed. He came to Chicago +on business four times a year, and he always took Effie to the +theater, and to supper afterward. On those occasions, Effie's +gown, wrap and hat were as correct in texture, lines, and paradise +aigrettes as those of any of her non-working sisters about her. On +the morning following these excursions into Lobsterdom, Effie would +confide to her friend, Miss Weinstein, of the lingeries and +neligees: + +"l was out with my friend, Mr. Marks, last evening. We went +to Rector's after the show. Oh, well, it takes a New Yorker to +know how. Honestly, I feel like a queen when I go out with him. +H'm? Oh, nothing like that, girlie. I never could see that +marriage thing. Just good friends." + +Gabe had been coming to Chicago four times a year for six +years. Six times four are twenty-four. And one is twenty-five. +Gabe's last visit made the twenty-fifth. + +"Well, Effie," Gabe said when the evening's entertainment had +reached the restaurant stage, "this is our twenty-fifth +anniversary. It's our silver wedding, without the silver and the +wedding. We'll have a bottle of champagne. That makes it almost +legal. And then suppose we finish up by having the wedding. The +silver can be omitted." + +Effie had been humming with the orchestra, holding a lobster +claw in one hand and wielding the little two-pronged fork with the +other. She dropped claw, fork, and popular air to stare +open-mouthed at Gabe. Then a slow, uncertain smile crept about her +lips, although her eyes were still unsmiling. + +"Stop your joking, Gabie," she said. "Some day you'll say +those things to the wrong lady, and then you'll have a +breach-of-promise suit on your hands." + +"This ain't no joke, Effie," Gabe had replied. "Not with me it +ain't. As long as my mother selig lived I wouldn't ever marry a +Goy. It would have broken her heart. I was a good son to her, and +good sons make good husbands, they say. Well, Effie, you want to +try it out?" + +There was something almost solemn in Effie's tone and +expression. "Gabie," she said slowly, "you're the first man that's +ever asked me to marry him." + +"That goes double," answered Gabe. + +"Thanks," said Effie. "That makes it all the nicer." + +"Then---- Gabe's face was radiant. But Effie shook her head +quickly. + +"You're just twenty years late," she said. + +"Late!" expostulated Gabe. "I ain't no dead one yet." + +Effie pushed her plate away with a little air of decision, +folded her plump arms on the table, and, leaning forward, looked +Gabe I. Marks squarely in the eyes. + +"Gabie," she said gently, "I'll bet you haven't got a hundred +dollars in the bank----" + +"But----" interrupted Gabe. + +"Wait a minute. I know you boys on the road. Besides your +diamond scarf pin and your ring and watch, have you got a cent over +your salary? Nix. You carry just about enough insurance to bury +you, don't you? You're fifty years old if you're a minute, Gabie, +and if I ain't mistaken you'd have a pretty hard time of it getting +ten thousand dollars' insurance after the doctors got through with +you. Twenty-five years of pinochle and poker and the fat of the +land haven't added up any bumps in the old stocking under the +mattress." + +"Say, looka here," objected Gabe, more red-faced than usual, +"I didn't know was proposing to no Senatorial investigating +committee. Say, you talk about them foreign noblemen being +mercenary! Why, they ain't in it with you girls to-day. A feller +is got to propose to you with his bank book in one hand and a bunch +of life-insurance policies in the other. You're right; I ain't +saved much. But Ma selig always had everything she wanted. Say, +when a man marries it's different. He begins to save." + +"There!" said Effie quickly. "That's just it. Twenty years +ago I'd have been glad and willing to start like that, saving and +scrimping and loving a man, and looking forward to the time when +four figures showed up in the bank account where but three bloomed +before. I've got what they call the home instinct. Give me a yard +or so of cretonne, and a photo of my married sister down in Iowa, +and I can make even a boarding-house inside bedroom look like a +place where a human being could live. If I had been as wise at +twenty as I am now, Gabie, I could have married any man I pleased. +But I was what they call capable. And men aren't marrying capable +girls. They pick little yellow-headed, blue-eyed idiots that don't +know a lamb stew from a soup bone when they see it. Well, Mr. Man +didn't show up, and I started in to clerk at six per. I'm earning +as much as you are now. More. Now, don't misunderstand me, Gabe. +I'm not throwing bouquets at myself. I'm not that kind of a girl. +But I could sell a style 743 Slimshape to the Venus de Milo +herself. The Lord knows she needed one, with those hips of hers. +I worked my way up, alone. I'm used to it. I like the excitement +down at the store. I'm used to luxuries. I guess if I was a man +I'd be the kind thy call a good provider--the kind that opens wine +every time there's half an excuse for it, and when he dies his +widow has to take in boarders. And, Gabe, after you've worn tai- +lored suits every year for a dozen years, you can't go back to +twenty-five-dollar ready-mades and be happy." + +"You could if you loved a man," said Gabe stubbornly. + +The hard lines around the jaw and the experienced lines about +the eyes seemed suddenly to stand out on Effie's face. + +"Love's young dream is all right. But you've reached the age +when you let your cigar ash dribble down onto your vest. Now me, +I've got a kimono nature but a straight-front job, and it's kept me +young. Young! I've got to be. That's my stock in trade. You +see, Gabie, we're just twenty years late, both of us. They're not +going to boost your salary. These days they're looking for kids on +the road--live wires, with a lot of nerve and a quick come-back. +They don't want old-timers. Why, say, Gabie, if I was to tell you +what I spend in face powder and toilette water and hairpins alone, +you'd think I'd made a mistake and given you the butcher bill +instead. And I'm no professional beauty, either. Only it takes +money to look cleaned and pressed in this town." + +In the seclusion of the cafe corner, Gabe laid one plump, +highly manicured hand on Effie's smooth arm. "You wouldn't need to +stay young for me, Effie. I like you just as you are, with +out the powder, or the toilette water, or the hair-pins." + +His red, good-natured face had an expression upon it that was +touchingly near patient resignation as he looked up into Effie's +sparkling countenance. "You never looked so good to me as you do +this minute, old girl. And if the day comes when you get +lonesome--or change your mind--or----" + +Effie shook her head, and started to draw on her long white +gloves. "I guess I haven't refused you the way the dames in the +novels do it. Maybe it's because I've had so little practice. But +I want to say this, Gabe. Thank God I don't have to die knowing +that no man ever wanted me to be his wife. Honestly, I'm that +grateful that I'd marry you in a minute if I didn't like you so +well." + +"I'll be back in three months, like always," was all that Gabe +said. "I ain't going to write. When I get here we'll just take in +a show, and the younger you look the better I'll like it." + +But on the occasion of Gabe's spring trip he encountered a +statuesque blonde person where Effie had been wont to reign. + +"Miss--er Bauer out of town?" + +The statue melted a trifle in the sunshine of Gabe's +ingratiating smile. + +"Miss Bauer's ill," the statue informed him, using a heavy +Eastern accent. "Anything I can do for you? I'm taking her +place." + +"Why--ah--not exactly; no," said Gabe. "Just a temporary +indisposition, I suppose?" + +"Well, you wouldn't hardly call it that, seeing that she's +been sick with typhoid for seven weeks." + +"Typhoid!" shouted Gabe. + +"While I'm not in the habit of asking gentlemen their names, +I'd like to inquire if yours happens to be Marks--Gabe I. Marks?" + +"Sure," said Gabe. "That's me." + +"Miss Bauer's nurse telephones down last week that if a +gentleman named Marks--Gabe I. Marks--drops in and inquires for +Miss Bauer, I'm to tell him that she's changed her mind." + +On the way from Spiegel's corset department to the car, Gabe +stopped only for a bunch of violets. Effie's apartment house +reached, he sent up his card, the violets, and a message that the +gentleman was waiting. There came back a reply that sent Gabie up +before the violets were relieved of their first layer of tissue +paper. + +Effie was sitting in a deep chair by the window, a flowered +quilt bunched about her shoulders, her feet in gray knitted bedroom +slippers. She looked every minute of her age, and she knew it, and +didn't care. The hand that she held out to Gabe was a limp, white, +fleshless thing that seemed to bear no relation to the plump, firm +member that Gabe had pressed on so many previous occasions. + +Gabe stared at this pale wraith in a moment of alarm and +dismay. Then: + +"You're looking--great!" he stammered. "Great! Nobody'd +believe you'd been sick a minute. Guess you've just been stalling +for a beauty rest, what?" + +Effie smiled a tired little smile, and shook her head slowly. + +"You're a good kid, Gabie, to lie like that just to make me +feel good. But my nurse left yesterday and I had my first real +squint at myself in the mirror. She wouldn't let me look while she +was here. After what I saw staring back at me from that glass a +whole ballroom full of French courtiers whispering sweet nothings +in my ear couldn't make me believe that I look like anything but a +hunk of Roquefort, green spots included. When I think of how my +clothes won't fit it makes me shiver." + +"Oh, you'll soon be back at the store as good as new. They +fatten up something wonderful after typhoid. Why, I had a +friend----" + +"Did you get my message?" interrupted Effie. + +"I was only talking to hide my nervousness," said Gabe, and +started forward. But Effie waved him away. + +"Sit down," she said. "I've got something to say." She +looked thoughtfully down at one shining finger nail. Her lower lip +was caught between her teeth. When she looked up again her eyes +were swimming in tears. Gabe started forward again. Again Effie +waved him away. + +"It's all right, Gabie. I don't blubber as a rule. This +fever leaves you as weak as a rag, and ready to cry if any one says +`Boo!' I've been doing some high-pressure thinking since nursie +left. Had plenty of time to do it in, sitting here by this window +all day. My land! I never knew there was so much time. There's +been days when I haven't talked to a soul, except the nurse and the +chambermaid. Lonesome! Say, the amount of petting I could stand +would surprise you. Of course, my nurse was a perfectly good +nurse--at twenty-five per. But I was just a case to her. You +can't expect a nurse to ooze sympathy over an old maid with the +fever. I tell you I was dying to have some one say `Sh-sh-sh!' +when there was a noise, just to show they were interested. +Whenever I'd moan the nurse would come over and stick a thermometer +in my mouth and write something down on a chart. The boys and +girls at the store sent flowers. They'd have done the same if I'd +died. When the fever broke I just used to lie there and dream, not +feeling anything in particular, and not caring much whether it was +day or night. Know what I mean?" + +Gabie shook a sympathetic head. + +There was a little silence. Then Effie went on. "I used to +think I was pretty smart, earning my own good living, dressing as +well as the next one, and able to spend my vacation in Atlantic +City if I wanted to. I didn't know I was missing anything. But +while I was sick I got to wishing that there was somebody that +belonged to me. Somebody to worry about me, and to sit up +nights--somebody that just naturally felt they had to come +tiptoeing into my room every three or four minutes to see if I was +sleeping, or had enough covers on, or wanted a drink, or something. +I got to thinking what it would have been like if I had a husband +and a--home. You'll think I'm daffy, maybe." + +Gabie took Effie's limp white hand in his, and stroked it +gently. Effie's face was turned away from him, toward the noisy +street. + +"I used to imagine how he'd come home at six, stamping his +feet, maybe, and making a lot of noise the way men do. And then +he'd remember, and come creaking up the steps, and he'd stick his +head in at the door in the funny, awkward, pathetic way men have in +a sick room. And he'd say, `How's the old girl to-night? I'd +better not come near you now, puss, because I'll bring the cold +with me. Been lonesome for your old man?' + +"And I'd say, `Oh, I don't care how cold you are, dear. The +nurse is downstairs, getting my supper ready.' + +"And then he'd come tiptoeing over to my bed, and stoop down, +and kiss me, and his face would be all cold, and rough, and his +mustache would be wet, and he'd smell out-doorsy and smoky, the way +husbands do when they come in. And I'd reach up and pat his cheek +and say, `You need a shave, old man.' + +"`I know it,' he'd say, rubbing his cheek up against mine. + +"`Hurry up and wash, now. Supper'll be ready.' + +"`Where are the kids?' he'd ask. `The house is as quiet as +the grave. Hurry up and get well, kid. It's darn lonesome without +you at the table, and the children's manners are getting something +awful, and I never can find my shirts. Lordy, I guess we won't +celebrate when you get up! Can't you eat a little something +nourishing for supper--beefsteak, or a good plate of soup, or +something?' + +"Men are like that, you know. So I'd say then: `Run along, +you old goose! You'll be suggesting sauerkraut and wieners next. +Don't you let Millie have any marmalade to-night. She's got a +spoiled stomach.' + +"And then he'd pound off down the hall to wash up, and I'd +shut my eyes, and smile to myself, and everything would be all +right, because he was home." + +There was a long silence. Effie's eyes were closed. But two +great tears stole out from beneath each lid and coursed their slow +way down her thin cheeks. She did not raise her hand to wipe them +away. + +Gabie's other hand reached over and met the one that already +clasped Effie's. + +"Effie," he said, in a voice that was as hoarse as it was +gentle. + +"H'm?" said Effie. + +"Will you marry me?" + +"I shouldn't wonder," replied Effie, opening her eyes. "No, +don't kiss me. You might catch something. But say, reach up and +smooth my hair away from my forehead, will you, and call me a +couple of fool names. I don't care how clumsy you are about it. +I could stand an awful fuss being made over me, without being +spoiled any." + +Three weeks later Effie was back at the store. Her skirt +didn't fit in the back, and the little hollow places in her cheeks +did not take the customary dash of rouge as well as when they had +been plumper. She held a little impromptu reception that extended +down as far as the lingeries and up as far as the rugs. The old +sparkle came back to Effie's eye. The old assurance and vigor +seemed to return. By the time that Miss Weinstein, of the French +lingeries, arrived, breathless, to greet her Effie was herself +again. + +"Well, if you're not a sight for sore eyes, dearie," exclaimed +Miss Weinstein. "My goodness, how grand and thin you are! I'd be +willing to take a course in typhoid myself, if I thought I could +lose twenty-five pounds." + +"I haven't a rag that fits me," Effie announced proudly. + +Miss Weinstein lowered her voice discreetly. "Dearie, can you +come down to my department for a minute? We're going to have a +sale on imported lawnjerie blouses, slightly soiled, from nine to +eleven to-morrow. There's one you positively must see. +Hand-embroidered, Irish motifs, and eyeleted from soup to nuts, and +only eight-fifty." + +"I've got a fine chance of buying hand-made waists, no matter +how slightly soiled," Effie made answer, "with a doctor and nurse's +bill as long as your arm." + +"Oh, run along!" scoffed Miss Weinstein. "A person would +think you had a husband to get a grouch every time you get reckless +to the extent of a new waist. You're your own boss. And you know +your credit's good. Honestly, it would be a shame to let this +chance slip. You're not getting tight in your old age, are you?" + +"N-no," faltered Effie, "but----" + +"Then come on," urged Miss Weinstein energetically. "And be +thankful you haven't got a man to raise the dickens when the bill +comes in." + +"Do you mean that?" asked Effie slowly, fixing Miss Weinstein +with a thoughtful eye. + +"Surest thing you know. Say, girlie, let's go over to Klein's +for lunch this noon. They have pot roast with potato pfannkuchen +on Tuesdays, and we can split an order between us." + +"Hold that waist till to-morrow, will you?" said Effie. "I've +made an arrangement with a--friend that might make new clothes +impossible just now. But I'm going to wire my party that the +arrangement is all off. I've changed my mind. I ought to get an +answer to-morrow. Did you say it was a thirty-six?" + + + + + +VII + + +MAYMEYS FROM CUBA + +There is nothing new in this. It has all been done before. But +tell me, what is new? Does the aspiring and perspiring summer +vaudeville artist flatter himself that his stuff is going big? +Then does the stout man with the oyster-colored eyelids in the +first row, left, turn his bullet head on his fat-creased neck to +remark huskily to his companion: + +"The hook for him. R-r-r-rotten! That last one was an old +Weber'n Fields' gag. They discarded it back in '91. Say, the good +ones is all dead, anyhow. Take old Salvini, now, and Dan Rice. +Them was actors. Come on out and have something." + +Does the short-story writer felicitate himself upon having +discovered a rare species in humanity's garden? The Blase Reader +flips the pages between his fingers, yawns, stretches, and remarks +to his wife: + +"That's a clean lift from Kipling--or is it Conan Doyle? +Anyway, I've read something just like it before. Say, kid, guess +what these magazine guys get for a full page ad.? Nix. That's just +like a woman. Three thousand straight. Fact." + +To anticipate the delver into the past it may be stated that +the plot of this one originally appeared in the Eternal Best +Seller, under the heading, "He Asked You For Bread, and Ye Gave Him +a Stone." There may be those who could not have traced my +plagiarism to its source. + +Although the Book has had an unprecedentedly long run it is +said to be less widely read than of yore. + +Even with this preparation I hesitate to confess that this is +the story of a hungry girl in a big city. Well, now, wait a +minute. Conceding that it has been done by every scribbler from +tyro to best seller expert, you will acknowledge that there is the +possibility of a fresh viewpoint--twist--what is it the sporting +editors call it? Oh, yes--slant. There is the possibility of +getting a new slant on an old idea. That may serve to deflect the +line of the deadly parallel. + +Just off State Street there is a fruiterer and importer who +ought to be arrested for cruelty. His window is the most +fascinating and the most heartless in Chicago. A line of +open-mouthed, wide-eyed gazers is always to be found before it. +Despair, wonder, envy, and rebellion smolder in the eyes of those +gazers. No shop window show should be so diabolically set forth as +to arouse such sensations in the breast of the beholder. It is a +work of art, that window; a breeder of anarchism, a destroyer of +contentment, a second feast of Tantalus. It boasts peaches, dewy +and golden, when peaches have no right to be; plethoric, purple +bunches of English hothouse grapes are there to taunt the +ten-dollar-a-week clerk whose sick wife should be in the hospital; +strawberries glow therein when shortcake is a last summer's memory, +and forced cucumbers remind us that we are taking ours in the form +of dill pickles. There is, perhaps, a choice head of cauliflower, +so exquisite in its ivory and green perfection as to be fit for a +bride's bouquet; there are apples so flawless that if the garden of +Eden grew any as perfect it is small wonder that Eve fell for them. + +There are fresh mushrooms, and jumbo cocoanuts, and green almonds; +costly things in beds of cotton nestle next to strange and +marvelous things in tissue, wrappings. Oh, that window is no place +for the hungry, the dissatisfied, or the man out of a job. When +the air is filled with snow there is that in the sight of +muskmelons which incites crime. + +Queerly enough, the gazers before that window foot up the +same, year in, and year out, something after this fashion: + +Item: One anemic little milliner's apprentice in coat and +shoes that even her hat can't redeem. + +Item: One sandy-haired, gritty-complexioned man, with a +drooping ragged mustache, a tin dinner bucket, and lime on his +boots. + +Item: One thin mail carrier with an empty mail sack, gaunt +cheeks, and an habitual droop to his left shoulder. + +Item: One errand boy troubled with a chronic sniffle, a +shrill and piping whistle, and a great deal of shuffling foot-work. + +Item: One negro wearing a spotted tan topcoat, frayed +trousers and no collar. His eyes seem all whites as he gazes. + +Enough of the window. But bear it in mind while we turn to +Jennie. Jennie's real name was Janet, and she was Scotch. Canny? +Not necessarily, or why should she have been hungry and out of a +job in January? + +Jennie stood in the row before the window, and stared. The +longer she stared the sharper grew the lines that fright and +under-feeding had chiseled about her nose, and mouth, and eyes. +When your last meal is an eighteen-hour-old memory, and when that +memory has only near-coffee and a roll to dwell on, there is +something in the sight of January peaches and great strawberries +carelessly spilling out of a tipped box, just like they do in the +fruit picture on the dining-room wall, that is apt to carve sharp +lines in the corners of the face. + +The tragic line dwindled, going about its business. The man +with the dinner pail and the lime on his boots spat, drew the back +of his hand across his mouth, and turned away with an ugly look. +(Pork was up to $14.25, dressed.) + +The errand boy's blithe whistle died down to a mournful dirge. + +He was window-wishing. His choice wavered between the juicy pears, +and the foreign-looking red things that looked like oranges, and +weren't. One hand went into his coat pocket, extracting an apple +that was to have formed the piece de resistance of his noonday +lunch. Now he regarded it with a sort of pitying disgust, and bit +into it with the middle-of-the-morning contempt that it deserved. + +The mail carrier pushed back his cap and reflectively +scratched his head. How much over his month's wage would that +green basket piled high with exotic fruit come to? + +Jennie stood and stared after they had left, and another line +had formed. If you could have followed her gaze with dotted lines, +as they do in the cartoons, you would have seen that it was not the +peaches, or the prickly pears, or the strawberries, or the +muskmelon or even the grapes, that held her eye. In the center of +that wonderful window was an oddly woven basket. In the basket +were brown things that looked like sweet potatoes. One knew that +they were not. A sign over the basket informed the puzzled gazer +that these were maymeys from Cuba. + +Maymeys from Cuba. The humor of it might have struck Jennie +if she had not been so Scotch, and so hungry. As it was, a slow, +sullen, heavy Scotch wrath rose in her breast. Maymeys from Cuba. + +The wantonness of it! Peaches? Yes. Grapes, even, and pears +and cherries in snow time. But maymeys from Cuba--why, one did not +even know if they were to be eaten with butter, or with vinegar, or +in the hand, like an apple. Who wanted maymeys from Cuba? They +had gone all those hundreds of miles to get a fruit or vegetable +thing--a thing so luxurious, so out of all reason that one did not +know whether it was to be baked, or eaten raw. There they lay, in +their foreign-looking basket, taunting Jennie who needed a quarter. + +Have I told you how Jennie happened to be hungry and jobless? +Well, then I sha'n't. It doesn't really matter, anyway. The fact +is enough. If you really demand to know you might inquire of Mr. +Felix Klein. You will find him in a mahogany office on the sixth +floor. The door is marked manager. It was his idea to import +Scotch lassies from Dunfermline for his Scotch linen department. +The idea was more fetching than feasible. + +There are people who will tell you that no girl possessing a +grain of common sense and a little nerve need go hungry, no matter +how great the city. Don't you believe them. The city has heard +the cry of wolf so often that it refuses to listen when he is +snarling at the door, particularly when the door is next door. + +Where did we leave Jennie? Still standing on the sidewalk +before the fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys from +Cuba. Finally her Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it no +longer. She dug her elbow into the arm of the person standing next +in line. + +"What are those?" she asked. + +The next in line happened to be a man. He was a man without +an overcoat, and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and his +hands thrust deep into his pockets. It looked as though he were +trying to crawl inside himself for warmth. + +"Those? That sign says they're maymeys from Cuba." + +"I know," persisted Jennie, "but what are they?" + +"Search me. Say, I ain't bothering about maymeys from Cuba. +A couple of hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump of +butter, would look good enough to me." + +"Do you suppose any one buys them?" marveled Jennie. + + +"Surest thing you know. Some rich dame coming by here, +wondering what she can have for dinner to tempt the jaded palates +of her dear ones, see? She sees them Cuban maymeys. `The very +thing!' she says. `I'll have 'em served just before the salad.' +And she sails in and buys a pound or two. I wonder, now, do you +eat 'em with a fruit knife, or with a spoon?" + +Jennie took one last look at the woven basket with its foreign +contents. Then she moved on, slowly. She had been moving on for +hours--weeks. + +Most people have acquired the habit of eating three meals a +day. In a city of some few millions the habit has made necessary +the establishing of many thousands of eating places. Jennie would +have told you that there were billions of these. To her the world +seemed composed of one huge, glittering restaurant, with myriads of +windows through which one caught maddening glimpses of ketchup +bottles, and nickel coffee heaters, and piles of doughnuts, and +scurrying waiters in white, and people critically studying menu +cards. She walked in a maze of restaurants, cafes, eating-houses. +Tables and diners loomed up at every turn, on every street, from +Michigan Avenue's rose-shaded Louis the Somethingth palaces, where +every waiter owns his man, to the white tile mausoleums where every +man is his own waiter. Everywhere there were windows full of lemon +cream pies, and pans of baked apples swimming in lakes of golden +syrup, and pots of baked beans with the pink and crispy slices of +pork just breaking through the crust. Every dairy lunch mocked one +with the sign of "wheat cakes with maple syrup and country sausage, +20 cents." + +There are those who will say that for cases like Jennie's +there are soup kitchens, Y. W. C. A.'s, relief associations, +policemen, and things like that. And so there are. Unfortunately, +the people who need them aren't up on them. Try it. Plant +yourself, penniless, in the middle of State Street on a busy day, +dive into the howling, scrambling, pushing maelstrom that hurls +itself against the mountainous and impregnable form of the crossing +policeman, and see what you'll get out of it, provided you have the +courage. + +Desperation gave Jennie a false courage. On the strength of +it she made two false starts. The third time she reached the arm +of the crossing policeman, and clutched it. That imposing giant +removed the whistle from his mouth, and majestically inclined his +head without turning his gaze upon Jennie, one eye being fixed on +a red automobile that was showing signs of sulking at its enforced +pause, the other being busy with a cursing drayman who was having +an argument with his off horse. + +Jennie mumbled her question. + +Said the crossing policeman: + +"Getcher car on Wabash, ride to 'umpty-second, transfer, get +off at Blank Street, and walk three blocks south." + +Then he put the whistle back in his mouth, blew two shrill +blasts, and the horde of men, women, motors, drays, trucks, cars, +and horses swept over him, through him, past him, leaving him +miraculously untouched. + +Jennie landed on the opposite curbing, breathing hard. What +was that street? Umpty-what? Well, it didn't matter, anyway. She +hadn't the nickel for car fare. + +What did you do next? You begged from people on the street. +Jennie selected a middle-aged, prosperous, motherly looking woman. +She framed her plea with stiff lips. Before she had finished her +sentence she found herself addressing empty air. The middle-aged, +prosperous, motherly looking woman had hurried on. + +Well, then you tried a man. You had to be careful there. He +mustn't be the wrong kind. There were so many wrong kinds. Just +an ordinary looking family man would be best. Ordinary looking +family men are strangely in the minority. There are so many more +bull-necked, tan-shoed ones. Finally Jennie's eye, grown sharp +with want, saw one. Not too well dressed, kind-faced, middle-aged. + +She fell into step beside him. + +"Please, can you help me out with a shilling?" + +Jennie's nose was red, and her eyes watery. Said the +middle-aged family man with the kindly face: + +"Beat it. You've had about enough I guess." + +Jennie walked into a department store, picked out the oldest +and most stationary looking floorwalker, and put it to him. The +floorwalker bent his head, caught the word "food," swung about, and +pointed over Jennie's head. + +"Grocery department on the seventh floor. Take one of those +elevators up." + +Any one but a floorwalker could have seen the misery in +Jennie's face. But to floorwalkers all women's faces are horrible. + +Jennie turned and walked blindly toward the elevators. There +was no fight left in her. If the floorwalker had said, "Silk +negligees on the fourth floor. Take one of those elevators up," +Jennie would have ridden up to the fourth floor, and stupidly gazed +at pink silk and val lace negligees in glass cases. + +Tell me, have you ever visited the grocery department of a +great store on the wrong side of State Street? It's a +mouth-watering experience. A department store grocery is a +glorified mixture of delicatessen shop, meat market, and +vaudeville. Starting with the live lobsters and crabs you work +your hungry way right around past the cheeses, and the sausages, +and the hams, and tongues, and head-cheese, past the blonde person +in white who makes marvelous and uneatable things out of gelatine, +through a thousand smells and scents--smells of things smoked, and +pickled, and spiced, and baked and preserved, and roasted. + +Jennie stepped out of the elevator, licking her lips. She +sniffed the air, eagerly, as a hound sniffs the scent. She shut +her eyes when she passed the sugar-cured hams. A woman was buying +a slice from one, and the butcher was extolling its merits. Jennie +caught the words "juicy" and "corn-fed." + +That particular store prides itself on its cheese department. +It boasts that there one can get anything in cheese from the simple +cottage variety to imposing mottled Stilton. There are cheeses +from France, cheeses from Switzerland, cheeses from Holland. Brick +and parmesan, Edam and limburger perfumed the atmosphere. + +Behind the counters were big, full-fed men in white aprons, +and coats. They flourished keen bright knives. As Jennie gazed, +one of them, in a moment of idleness, cut a tiny wedge from a rich +yellow Swiss cheese and stood nibbling it absently, his eyes +wandering toward the blonde gelatine demonstrator. Jennie swayed, +and caught the counter. She felt horribly faint and queer. She +shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them a woman--a fat, +housewifely, comfortable looking woman--was standing before the +cheese counter. She spoke to the cheese man. Once more his sharp +knife descended and he was offering the possible customer a sample. +She picked it off the knife's sharp tip, nibbled thoughtfully, +shook her head, and passed on. A great, glorious world of hope +opened out before Jennie. + +Her cheeks grew hot, and her eyes felt dry and bright as she +approached the cheese counter. + +"A bit of that," she said, pointing. "It doesn't look just as +I like it." + +"Very fine, madam," the man assured her, and turned the knife +point toward her, with the infinitesimal wedge of cheese reposing +on its blade. Jennie tried to keep her hand steady as she +delicately picked it off, nibbled as she had seen that other woman +do it, her head on one side, before it shook a slow negative. The +effort necessary to keep from cramming the entire piece into her +mouth at once left her weak and trembling. She passed on as the +other woman had done, around the corner, and into a world of +sausages. Great rosy mounds of them filled counters and cases. +Sausage! Sneer, you pate de foies grasers! But may you know the +day when hunger will have you. And on that day may you run into +linked temptation in the form of Braunschweiger Metwurst. May you +know the longing that causes the eyes to glaze at the sight of +Thuringer sausage, and the mouth to water at the scent of Cervelat +wurst, and the fingers to tremble at the nearness of smoked liver. + +Jennie stumbled on, through the smells and the sights. That +nibble of cheese had been like a drop of human blood to a +man-eating tiger. It made her bold, cunning, even while it +maddened. She stopped at this counter and demanded a slice of +summer sausage. It was paper-thin, but delicious beyond belief. +At the next counter there was corned beef, streaked fat and lean. +Jennie longed to bury her teeth in the succulent meat and get one +great, soul-satisfying mouthful. She had to be content with her +judicious nibbling. To pass the golden-brown, breaded pig's feet +was torture. To look at the codfish balls was agony. And so +Jennie went on, sampling, tasting, the scraps of food acting only +as an aggravation. Up one aisle, and down the next she went. And +then, just around the corner, she brought up before the grocery +department's pride and boast, the Scotch bakery. It is the store's +star vaudeville feature. All day long the gaping crowd stands +before it, watching David the Scone Man, as with sleeves rolled +high above his big arms, he kneads, and slaps, and molds, and +thumps and shapes the dough into toothsome Scotch confections. +There was a crowd around the white counters now, and the flat +baking surface of the gas stove was just hot enough, and David the +Scone Man (he called them Scuns) was whipping about here and there, +turning the baking oat cakes, filling the shelf above the stove +when they were done to a turn, rolling out fresh ones, waiting on +customers. His nut-cracker face almost allowed itself a pleased +expression--but not quite. David, the Scone Man, was Scotch (I was +going to add, d'ye ken, but I will not). + +Jennie wondered if she really saw those things. Mutton pies! +Scones! Scotch short bread! Oat cakes! She edged closer, +wriggling her way through the little crowd until she stood at the +counter's edge. David, the Scone Man, his back to the crowd, was +turning the last batch of oat cakes. Jennie felt strangely +light-headed, and unsteady, and airy. She stared straight ahead, +a half-smile on her lips, while a hand that she knew was her own, +and that yet seemed no part of her, stole out, very, very slowly, +and cunningly, and extracted a hot scone from the pile that lay in +the tray on the counter. That hand began to steal back, more +quickly now. But not quickly enough. Another hand grasped her +wrist. A woman's high, shrill voice (why will women do these +things to each other?) said, excitedly: + +"Say, Scone Man! Scone Man! This girl is stealing +something!" + +A buzz of exclamations from the crowd--a closing in upon +her--a whirl of faces, and counter, and trays, and gas stove. +Jennie dropped with a crash, the warm scone still grasped in her +fingers. + +Just before the ambulance came it was the blonde lady of the +impossible gelatines who caught the murmur that came from Jennie's +white lips. The blonde lady bent her head closer. Closer still. +When she raised her face to those other faces crowded near, her +eyes were round with surprise. + +"'S far's I can make out, she says her name's Mamie, and she's +from Cuba. Well, wouldn't that eat you! I always thought they was +dark complected." + + + + + +VII + + +THE LEADING LADY + +The leading lady lay on her bed and wept. +Not as you have seen leading ladies weep, becomingly, with +eyebrows pathetically V-shaped, mouth quivering, sequined bosom +heaving. The leading lady lay on her bed in a red-and-blue-striped +kimono and wept as a woman weeps, her head burrowing into the +depths of the lumpy hotel pillow, her teeth biting the pillow-case +to choke back the sounds so that the grouch in the next room might +not hear. + +Presently the leading lady's right hand began to grope about +on the bedspread for her handkerchief. Failing to find it, she sat +up wearily, raising herself on one elbow and pushing her hair back +from her forehead--not as you have seen a leading lady pass a lily +hand across her alabaster brow, but as a heart-sick woman does it. +Her tears and sniffles had formed a little oasis of moisture on the +pillow's white bosom so that the ugly stripe of the ticking showed +through. She gazed down at the damp circle with smarting, swollen +eyes, and another lump came up into her throat. + +Then she sat up resolutely, and looked about her. The leading +lady had a large and saving sense of humor. But there is nothing +that blunts the sense of humor more quickly than a few months of +one-night stands. Even O. Henry could have seen nothing funny +about that room. + +The bed was of green enamel, with fly-specked gold trimmings. +It looked like a huge frog. The wall-paper was a crime. It +represented an army of tan mustard plasters climbing up a +chocolate-fudge wall. The leading lady was conscious of a feeling +of nausea as she gazed at it. So she got up and walked to the +window. The room faced west, and the hot afternoon sun smote full +on her poor swollen eyes. Across the street the red brick walls of +the engine-house caught the glare and sent it back. The firemen, +in their blue shirt-sleeves, were seated in the shade before the +door, their chairs tipped at an angle of sixty. The leading lady +stared down into the sun-baked street, turned abruptly and made as +though to fall upon the bed again, with a view to forming another +little damp oasis on the pillow. But when she reached the center +of the stifling little bedroom her eye chanced on the electric +call-button near the door. Above the electric bell was tacked a +printed placard giving information on the subjects of laundry, +ice-water, bell-boys and dining-room hours. + +The leading lady stood staring at it a moment thoughtfully. +Then with a sudden swift movement she applied her forefinger to the +button and held it there for a long half-minute. Then she sat down +on the edge of the bed, her kimono folded about her, and waited. + +She waited until a lank bell-boy, in a brown uniform that was +some sizes too small for him, had ceased to take any interest in +the game of chess which Bauer and Merkle, the champion firemen +chess-players, were contesting on the walk before the open doorway +of the engine-house. The proprietor of the Burke House had +originally intended that the brown uniform be worn by a diminutive +bell-boy, such as one sees in musical comedies. But the available +supply of stage size bell-boys in our town is somewhat limited and +was soon exhausted. There followed a succession of lank bell-boys, +with arms and legs sticking ungracefully out of sleeves and +trousers. + +"Come!" called the leading lady quickly, in answer to the lank +youth's footsteps, and before he had had time to knock. + +"Ring?" asked the boy, stepping into the torrid little room. + +The leading lady did not reply immediately. She swallowed +something in her throat and pushed back the hair from her moist +forehead again. The brown uniform repeated his question, a trifle +irritably. Whereupon the leading lady spoke, desperately: + +"Is there a woman around this place? I don't mean dining-room +girls, or the person behind the cigar-counter." + +Since falling heir to the brown uniform the lank youth had +heard some strange requests. He had been interviewed by various +ladies in varicolored kimonos relative to liquid refreshment, +laundry and the cost of hiring a horse and rig for a couple of +hours. One had even summoned him to ask if there was a Bible in +the house. But this latest question was a new one. He stared, +leaning against the door and thrusting one hand into the depths of +his very tight breeches pocket. + +"Why, there's Pearlie Schultz," he said at last, with a grin. + +"Who's she?" The leading lady sat up expectantly. + +"Steno." + +The expectant figure drooped. "Blonde? And Irish crochet +collar with a black velvet bow on her chest?" + +"Who? Pearlie? Naw. You mustn't get Pearlie mixed with the +common or garden variety of stenos. Pearlie is fat, and she wears +specs and she's got a double chin. Her hair is skimpy and she +don't wear no rat. W'y no traveling man has ever tried to flirt +with Pearlie yet. Pearlie's what you'd call a woman, all right. +You wouldn't never make a mistake and think she'd escaped from the +first row in the chorus." + +The leading lady rose from the bed, reached out for her +pocket-book, extracted a dime, and held it out to the bell-boy. + +"Here. Will you ask her to come up here to me? Tell her I +said please." + +After he had gone she seated herself on the edge of the bed +again, with a look in her eyes like that which you have seen in the +eyes of a dog that is waiting for a door to be opened. + +Fifteen minutes passed. The look in the eyes of the leading +lady began to fade. Then a footstep sounded down the hall. The +leading lady cocked her head to catch it, and smiled blissfully. +It was a heavy, comfortable footstep, under which a board or two +creaked. There came a big, sensible thump-thump-thump at the door, +with stout knuckles. The leading lady flew to answer it. She +flung the door wide and stood there, clutching her kimono at the +throat and looking up into a red, good-natured face. + +Pearlie Schultz looked down at the leading lady kindly and +benignantly, as a mastiff might look at a terrier. + +"Lonesome for a bosom to cry on?" asked she, and stepped into +the room, walked to the west windows, and jerked down the shades +with a zip-zip, shutting off the yellow glare. She came back to +where the leading lady was standing and patted her on the cheek, +lightly. + +"You tell me all about it," said she, smiling. + +The leading lady opened her lips, gulped, tried again, gulped +again--Pearlie Schultz shook a sympathetic head. + +"Ain't had a decent, close-to-nature powwow with a woman for +weeks and weeks, have you?" + +"How did you know?" cried the leading lady. + +"You've got that hungry look. There was a lady drummer here +last winter, and she had the same expression. She was so dead sick +of eating her supper and then going up to her ugly room and reading +and sewing all evening that it was a wonder she'd stayed good. She +said it was easy enough for the men. They could smoke, and play +pool, and go to a show, and talk to any one that looked good to +'em. But if she tried to amuse herself everybody'd say she was +tough. She cottoned to me like a burr to a wool skirt. She +traveled for a perfumery house, and she said she hadn't talked to +a woman, except the dry-goods clerks who were nice to her trying to +work her for her perfume samples, for weeks an' weeks. Why, that +woman made crochet by the bolt, and mended her clothes evenings +whether they needed it or not, and read till her eyes come near +going back on her." + +The leading lady seized Pearlie's hand and squeezed it. + +"That's it! Why, I haven't talked--really talked--to a real +woman since the company went out on the road. I'm leading lady of +the `Second Wife' company, you know. It's one of those small cast +plays, with only five people in it. I play the wife, and I'm the +only woman in the cast. It's terrible. I ought to be thankful to +get the part these days. And I was, too. But I didn't know it +would be like this. I'm going crazy. The men in the company are +good kids, but I can't go trailing around after them all day. +Besides, it wouldn't be right. They're all married, except Billy, +who plays the kid, and he's busy writing a vawdeville skit that he +thinks the New York managers are going to fight for when he gets +back home. We were to play Athens, Wisconsin, to-night, but the +house burned down night before last, and that left us with an open +date. When I heard the news you'd have thought I had lost my +mother. It's bad enough having a whole day to kill but when I +think of to-night," the leading lady's voice took on a note of +hysteria, "it seems as though I'd----" + +"Say," Pearlie interrupted, abruptly, "you ain't got a real +good corset-cover pattern, have you? One that fits smooth over the +bust and don't slip off the shoulders? I don't seem able to get my +hands on the kind I want." + +"Have I!" yelled the leading lady. And made a flying leap +from the bed to the floor. + +She flapped back the cover of a big suit-case and began +burrowing into its depths, strewing the floor with lingerie, +newspaper clippings, blouses, photographs and Dutch collars. +Pearlie came over and sat down on the floor in the midst of the +litter. The leading lady dived once more, fished about in the +bottom of the suit-case and brought a crumpled piece of paper +triumphantly to the surface. + +"This is it. It only takes a yard and five-eighths. And +fits! Like Anna Held's skirts. Comes down in a V front and +back--like this. See? And no fulness. Wait a minute. I'll show +you my princess slip. I made it all by hand, too. I'll bet you +couldn't buy it under fifteen dollars, and it cost me four dollars +and eighty cents, with the lace and all." + +Before an hour had passed, the leading lady had displayed all +her treasures, from the photograph of her baby that died to her new +Blanche Ring curl cluster, and was calling Pearlie by her first +name. When a bell somewhere boomed six o'clock Pearlie was being +instructed in a new exercise calculated to reduce the hips an inch +a month. + +"My land!" cried Pearlie, aghast, and scrambled to her feet as +nimbly as any woman can who weighs two hundred pounds. +"Supper-time, and I've got a bunch of letters an inch thick to get +out! I'd better reduce that some before I begin on my hips. But +say, I've had a lovely time." + +The leading lady clung to her. "You've saved my life. Why, +I forgot all about being hot and lonely and a couple of thousand +miles from New York. Must you go?" + +"Got to. But if you'll promise you won't laugh, I'll make a +date for this evening that'll give you a new sensation anyway. +There's going to be a strawberry social on the lawn of the +parsonage of our church. I've got a booth. You shed that kimono, +and put on a thin dress and those curls and some powder, and I'll +introduce you as my friend, Miss Evans. You don't look Evans, but +this is a Methodist church strawberry festival, and if I was to +tell them that you are leading lady of the `Second Wife' company +they'd excommunicate my booth." + +"A strawberry social!" gasped the leading lady. "Do they +still have them?" She did not laugh. "Why, I used to go to +strawberry festivals when I was a little girl in----" + +"Careful! You'll be giving away your age, and, anyway, you +don't look it. Fashions in strawberry socials ain't changed much. +Better bathe your eyes in eau de cologne or whatever it is they're +always dabbing on 'em in books. See you at eight." + +At eight o'clock Pearlie's thump-thump sounded again, and the +leading lady sprang to the door as before. Pearlie stared. This +was no tear-stained, heat-bedraggled creature in an unbecoming +red-striped kimono. It was a remarkably pretty woman in a white +lingerie gown over a pink slip. The leading lady knew a thing or +two about the gentle art of making-up! + +"That just goes to show," remarked Pearlie, "that you must +never judge a woman in a kimono or a bathing suit. You look +nineteen. Say, I forgot something down-stairs. Just get your +handkerchief and chamois together and meet in my cubbyhole next to +the lobby, will you? I'll be ready for you." + +Down-stairs she summoned the lank bell-boy. "You go outside +and tell Sid Strang I want to see him, will you? He's on the bench +with the baseball bunch." + +Pearlie had not seen Sid Strang outside. She did not need to. +She knew he was there. In our town all the young men dress up in +their pale gray suits and lavender-striped shirts after supper on +summer evenings. Then they stroll down to the Burke House, buy a +cigar and sit down on the benches in front of the hotel to talk +baseball and watch the girls go by. It is astonishing to note the +number of our girls who have letters to mail after supper. One +would think that they must drive their pens fiercely all the +afternoon in order to get out such a mass of correspondence. + +The obedient Sid reached the door of Pearlie's little office +just off the lobby as the leading lady came down the stairs with a +spangled scarf trailing over her arm. It was an effective +entrance. + +"Why, hello!" said Pearlie, looking up from her typewriter as +though Sid Strang were the last person in the world she expected to +see. "What do you want here? Ethel, this is my friend, Mr. Sid +Strang, one of our rising young lawyers. His neckties always match +his socks. Sid, this is my friend, Miss Ethel Evans, of New York. +We're going over to the strawberry social at the M. E. parsonage. +I don't suppose you'd care about going?" + +Mr. Sid Strang gazed at the leading lady in the white lingerie +dress with the pink slip, and the V-shaped neck, and the spangled +scarf, and turned to Pearlie. + +"Why, Pearlie Schultz!" he said reproachfully. "How can you +ask? You know what a strawberry social means to me! I haven't +missed one in years!" + +"I know it," replied Pearlie, with a grin. "You feel the same +way about Thursday evening prayer-meeting too, don't you? You can +walk over with us if you want to. We're going now. Miss Evans and +I have got a booth." + +Sid walked. Pearlie led them determinedly past the rows of +gray suits and lavender and pink shirts on the benches in front of +the hotel. And as the leading lady came into view the gray suits +stopped talking baseball and sat up and took notice. Pearlie had +known all those young men inside of the swagger suits in the days +when their summer costume consisted of a pair of dad's pants cut +down to a doubtful fit, and a nondescript shirt damp from the +swimming-hole. So she called out, cheerily: + +"We're going over to the strawberry festival. I expect to see +all you boys there to contribute your mite to the church carpet." + +The leading lady turned to look at them, and smiled. They +were such a dapper, pink-cheeked, clean-looking lot of boys, she +thought. At that the benches rose to a man and announced that they +might as well stroll over right now. Whenever a new girl comes to +visit in our town our boys make a concerted rush at her, and +develop a "case" immediately, and the girl goes home when her visit +is over with her head swimming, and forever after bores the girls +of her home town with tales of her conquests. + +The ladies of the First M. E. Church still talk of the money +they garnered at the strawberry festival. Pearlie's out-of-town +friend was garnerer-in-chief. You take a cross-eyed, pock-marked +girl and put her in a white dress, with a pink slip, on a green +lawn under a string of rose-colored Japanese lanterns, and she'll +develop an almost Oriental beauty. It is an ideal setting. The +leading lady was not cross-eyed or pock-marked. She stood at the +lantern-illumined booth, with Pearlie in the background, and dis- +pensed an unbelievable amount of strawberries. Sid Strang and the +hotel bench brigade assisted. They made engagements to take +Pearlie and her friend down river next day, and to the ball game, +and planned innumerable picnics, gazing meanwhile into the leading +lady's eyes. There grew in the cheeks of the leading lady a flush +that was not brought about by the pink slip, or the Japanese +lanterns, or the skillful application of rouge. + +By nine o'clock the strawberry supply was exhausted, and the +president of the Foreign Missionary Society was sending wildly +down-town for more ice-cream. + +"I call it an outrage," puffed Pearlie happily, ladling +ice-cream like mad. "Making a poor working girl like me slave all +evening! How many was that last order? Four? My land! that's the +third dish of ice-cream Ed White's had! You'll have something to +tell the villagers about when you get back to New York." + +The leading lady turned a flushed face toward Pearlie. "This +is more fun than the Actors' Fair. I had the photograph booth last +year, and I took in nearly as much as Lil Russell; and goodness +knows, all she needs to do at a fair is to wear her +diamond-and-pearl stomacher and her set-piece smile, and the men +just swarm around her like the pictures of a crowd in a McCutcheon +cartoon." + +When the last Japanese lantern had guttered out, Pearlie +Schultz and the leading lady prepared to go home. Before they +left, the M. E. ladies came over to Pearlie's booth and personally +congratulated the leading lady, and thanked her for the interest +she had taken in the cause, and the secretary of the Epworth League +asked her to come to the tea that was to be held at her home the +following Tuesday. The leading lady thanked her and said she'd +come if she could. + +Escorted by a bodyguard of gray suits and lavender-striped +shirts Pearlie and her friend, Miss Evans, walked toward the hotel. +The attentive bodyguard confessed itself puzzled. + +"Aren't you staying at Pearlie's house?" asked Sid tenderly, +when they reached the Burke House. The leading lady glanced up at +the windows of the stifling little room that faced west. + +"No," answered she, and paused at the foot of the steps to the +ladies' entrance. The light from the electric globe over the +doorway shone on her hair and sparkled in the folds of her spangled +scarf. + +"I'm not staying at Pearlie's because my name isn't Ethel +Evans. It's Aimee Fox, with a little French accent mark over the +double E. I'm leading lady of the `Second Wife' company and old +enough to be--well, your aunty, anyway. We go out at one-thirty +to-morrow morning." + + + + + +IX + + +THAT HOME-TOWN FEELING + +We all have our ambitions. Mine is to sit in a rocking-chair on +the sidewalk at the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets, and watch +the crowds go by. South Clark Street is one of the most +interesting and cosmopolitan thoroughfares in the world (New +Yorkers please sniff). If you are from Paris, France, or Paris, +Illinois, and should chance to be in that neighborhood, you will +stop at Tony's news stand to buy your home-town paper. Don't +mistake the nature of this story. There is nothing of the +shivering-newsboy-waif about Tony. He has the voice of a fog-horn, +the purple-striped shirt of a sport, the diamond scarf-pin of a +racetrack tout, and the savoir faire of the gutter-bred. You'd +never pick him for a newsboy if it weren't for his chapped hands +and the eternal cold-sore on the upper left corner of his mouth. + +It is a fascinating thing, Tony's stand. A high wooden +structure rising tier on tier, containing papers from every corner +of the world. I'll defy you to name a paper that Tony doesn't +handle, from Timbuctoo to Tarrytown, from South Bend to South +Africa. A paper marked Christiania, Norway, nestles next to a +sheet from Kalamazoo, Michigan. You can get the War Cry, or Le +Figaro. With one hand, Tony will give you the Berlin Tageblatt, +and with the other the Times from Neenah, Wisconsin. Take your +choice between the Bulletin from Sydney, Australia, or the Bee from +Omaha. + +But perhaps you know South Clark Street. It is honeycombed +with good copy--man-size stuff. South Clark Street reminds one of +a slatternly woman, brave in silks and velvets on the surface, but +ragged, and rumpled and none too clean as to nether garments. It +begins with a tenement so vile, so filthy, so repulsive, that the +municipal authorities deny its very existence. It ends with a +brand-new hotel, all red brick, and white tiling, and Louise Quinze +furniture, and sour-cream colored marble lobby, and oriental rugs +lavishly scattered under the feet of the unappreciative guest from +Kansas City. It is a street of signs, is South Clark. They vary +all the way from "Banca Italiana" done in fat, fly-specked letters +of gold, to "Sang Yuen" scrawled in Chinese red and black. +Spaghetti and chop suey and dairy lunches nestle side by side. +Here an electric sign blazons forth the tempting announcement of +lunch. Just across the way, delicately suggesting a means of +availing one's self of the invitation, is another which announces +"Loans." South Clark Street can transform a winter overcoat into +hamburger and onions so quickly that the eye can't follow the hand. + +Do you gather from this that you are being taken slumming? +Not at all. For the passer-by on Clark Street varies as to color, +nationality, raiment, finger-nails, and hair-cut according to the +locality in which you find him. + +At the tenement end the feminine passer-by is apt to be +shawled, swarthy, down-at-the-heel, and dragging a dark-eyed, +fretting baby in her wake. At the hotel end you will find her +blonde of hair, velvet of boot, plumed of head-gear, and prone to +have at her heels a white, woolly, pink-eyed dog. + +The masculine Clark Streeter? I throw up my hands. Pray +remember that South Clark Street embraces the dime lodging house, +pawnshop, hotel, theater, chop-suey and railway office district, +all within a few blocks. From the sidewalk in front of his +groggery, "Bath House John" can see the City Hall. The trim, +khaki-garbed enlistment officer rubs elbows with the lodging house +bum. The masculine Clark Streeter may be of the kind that begs a +dime for a bed, or he may loll in manicured luxury at the +marble-lined hotel. South Clark Street is so splendidly +indifferent. + +Copy-hunting, I approached Tony with hope in my heart, a smile +on my lips, and a nickel in my hand. + +"Philadelphia--er--Inquirer?" I asked, those being the city +and paper which fire my imagination least. + +Tony whipped it out, dexterously. + +I looked at his keen blue eye, his lean brown face, and his +punishing jaw, and I knew that no airy persiflage would deceive +him. Boldly I waded in. + +"I write for the magazines," said I. + +"Do they know it?" grinned Tony. + +"Just beginning to be faintly aware. Your stand looks like a +story to me. Tell me, does one ever come your way? For instance, +don't they come here asking for their home-town paper--sobs in +their voice--grasp the sheet with trembling hands--type swims in a +misty haze before their eyes--turn aside to brush away a tear--all +that kind of stuff, you know?" + +Tony's grin threatened his cold-sore. You can't stand on the +corner of Clark and Randolph all those years without getting wise +to everything there is. + +"I'm on," said he, "but I'm afraid I can't accommodate, +girlie. I guess my ear ain't attuned to that sob stuff. What's +that? Yessir. Nossir, fifteen cents. Well, I can't help that; +fifteen's the reg'lar price of foreign papers. Thanks. There, did +you see that? I bet that gink give up fifteen of his last two bits +to get that paper. O, well, sometimes they look happy, and then +again sometimes they--Yes'm. Mississippi? Five cents. Los Vegas +Optic right here. Heh there! You're forgettin' your change!--an' +then again sometimes they look all to the doleful. Say, stick +around. Maybe somebody'll start something. You can't never tell." + +And then this happened. + +A man approached Tony's news stand from the north, and a woman +approached Tony's news stand from the south. They brought my story +with them. + +The woman reeked of the city. I hope you know what I mean. +She bore the stamp, and seal, and imprint of it. It had ground its +heel down on her face. At the front of her coat she wore a huge +bunch of violets, with a fleshly tuberose rising from its center. +Her furs were voluminous. Her hat was hidden beneath the cascades +of a green willow plume. A green willow plume would make Edna May +look sophisticated. She walked with that humping hip movement +which city women acquire. She carried a jangling handful of +useless gold trinkets. Her heels were too high, and her hair too +yellow, and her lips too red, and her nose too white, and her +cheeks too pink. Everything about her was "too," from the black +stitching on her white gloves to the buckle of brilliants in her +hat. The city had her, body and soul, and had fashioned her in its +metallic cast. You would have sworn that she had never seen +flowers growing in a field. + +Said she to Tony: + +"Got a Kewaskum Courier?" + +As she said it the man stopped at the stand and put his +question. To present this thing properly I ought to be able to +describe them both at the same time, like a juggler keeping two +balls in the air at once. Kindly carry the lady in your mind's +eye. The man was tall and rawboned, with very white teeth, very +blue eyes and an open-faced collar that allowed full play to an +objectionably apparent Adam's apple. His hair and mustache were +sandy, his gait loping. His manner, clothes, and complexion +breathed of Waco, Texas (or is it Arizona?) + +Said he to Tony: + +"Let me have the London Times." + +Well, there you are. I turned an accusing eye on Tony. + +"And you said no stories came your way," I murmured, +reproachfully. + +"Help yourself," said Tony. + +The blonde lady grasped the Kewaskum Courier. Her green plume +appeared to be unduly agitated as she searched its columns. The +sheet rattled. There was no breeze. The hands in the too-black +stitched gloves were trembling. + +I turned from her to the man just in time to see the Adam's +apple leaping about unpleasantly and convulsively. Whereupon I +jumped to two conclusions. + +Conclusion one: Any woman whose hands can tremble over the +Kewaskum Courier is homesick. + +Conclusion two: Any man, any part of whose anatomy can become +convulsed over the London Times is homesick. + +She looked up from her Courier. He glanced away from his +Times. As the novelists have it, their eyes met. And there, in +each pair of eyes there swam that misty haze about which I had so +earnestly consulted Tony. The Green Plume took an involuntary step +forward. The Adam's Apple did the same. They spoke +simultaneously. + +"They're going to pave Main Street," said the Green Plume, +"and Mrs. Wilcox, that was Jeri Meyers, has got another baby girl, +and the ladies of the First M. E. made seven dollars and sixty-nine +cents on their needle-work bazaar and missionary tea. I ain't been +home in eleven years." + +"Hallem is trying for Parliament in Westchester and the King +is back at Windsor. My mother wears a lace cap down to breakfast, +and the place is famous for its tapestries and yew trees and family +ghost. I haven't been home in twelve years." + +The great, soft light of fellow feeling and sympathy glowed in +the eyes of each. The Green Plume took still another step forward +and laid her hand on his arm (as is the way of Green Plumes the +world over). + +"Why don't you go, kid?" she inquired, softly. + +Adam's Apple gnawed at his mustache end. "I'm the black +sheep. Why don't you?" + +The blonde lady looked down at her glove tips. Her lower lip +was caught between her teeth. + +"What's the feminine for black sheep? I'm that. Anyway, I'd +be afraid to go home for fear it would be too much of a shock for +them when they saw my hair. They wasn't in on the intermediate +stages when it was chestnut, auburn, Titian, gold, and orange +colored. I want to spare their feelings. The last time they saw +me it was just plain brown. Where I come from a woman who dyes her +hair when it is beginning to turn gray is considered as good as +lost. Funny, ain't it? And yet I remember the minister's wife +used to wear false teeth--the kind that clicks. But hair is +different." + +"Dear lady," said the blue-eyed man, "it would make no +difference to your own people. I know they would be happy to see +you, hair and all. One's own people----" + +"My folks? That's just it. If the Prodigal Son had been a +daughter they'd probably have handed her one of her sister's mother +hubbards, and put her to work washing dishes in the kitchen. You +see, after Ma died my brother married, and I went to live with him +and Lil. I was an ugly little mug, and it looked all to the +Cinderella for me, with the coach, and four, and prince left out. +Lil was the village beauty when my brother married her, and she +kind of got into the habit of leaving the heavy role to me, and +confining herself to thinking parts. One day I took twenty dollars +and came to the city. Oh, I paid it back long ago, but I've never +been home since. But say, do you know every time I get near a news +stand like this I grab the home-town paper. I'll bet I've kept +track every time my sister-in-law's sewing circle has met for the +last ten years, and the spring the paper said they built a new +porch I was just dying to write and ask'em what they did with the +Virginia creeper that used to cover the whole front and sides of +the old porch." + +"Look here," said the man, very abruptly, "if it's money you +need, why----" + +"Me! Do I look like a touch? Now you----" + +"Finest stock farm and ranch in seven counties. I come to +Chicago once a year to sell. I've got just thirteen thousand +nestling next to my left floating rib this minute." + +The eyes of the woman with the green plume narrowed down to +two glittering slits. A new look came into her face--a look that +matched her hat, and heels and gloves and complexion and hair. + +"Thirteen thousand! Thirteen thous---- Say, isn't it chilly +on this corner, h'm? I know a kind of a restaurant just around the +corner where----" + +"It's no use," said the sandy-haired man, gently. "And I +wouldn't have said that, if I were you. I was going back to-day +on the 5:25, but I'm sick of it all. So are you, or you wouldn't +have said what you just said. Listen. Let's go back home, you and +I. The sight of a Navajo blanket nauseates me. The thought of +those prairies makes my eyes ache. I know that if I have to eat +one more meal cooked by that Chink of mine I'll hang him by his own +pigtail. Those rangy western ponies aren't horseflesh, fit for a +man to ride. Why, back home our stables were-- Look here. I want +to see a silver tea-service, with a coat-of-arms on it. I want to +dress for dinner, and take in a girl with a white gown and smooth +white shoulders. My sister clips roses in the morning, before +breakfast, in a pink ruffled dress and garden gloves. Would you +believe that, here, on Clark Street, with a whiskey sign overhead, +and the stock-yard smells undernose? O, hell! I'm going home." + +"Home?" repeated the blonde lady. "Home?" The sagging lines +about her flaccid chin took on a new look of firmness and resolve. +The light of determination glowed in her eyes. + +"I'll beat you to it," she said. "I'm going home, too. I'll +be there to-morrow. I'm dead sick of this. Who cares whether I +live or die? It's just one darned round of grease paint, and sky +blue tights, and new boarding houses and humping over to the +theater every night, going on, and humping back to the room again. +I want to wash up some supper dishes with egg on 'em, and set some +yeast for bread, and pop a dishpan full of corn, and put a shawl +over my head and run over to Millie Krause's to get her kimono +sleeve pattern. I'm sour on this dirt and noise. I want to spend +the rest of my life in a place so that when I die they'll put a +column in the paper, with a verse at the top, and all the +neighbors'll come in and help bake up. Here--why, here I'd just be +two lines on the want ad page, with fifty cents extra for `Kewaskum +paper please copy.'" + +The man held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said, "and please +excuse me if I say God bless you. I've never really wanted to say +it before, so it's quite extraordinary. My name's Guy Peel." + +The white glove, with its too-conspicuous black stitching, +disappeared within his palm. + +"Mine's Mercedes Meron, late of the Morning Glory Burlesquers, +but from now on Sadie Hayes, of Kewaskum, Wisconsin. Good-bye +and--well--God bless you, too. Say, I hope you don't think I'm in +the habit of talking to strange gents like this." + +"I am quite sure you are not," said Guy Peel, very gravely, +and bowed slightly before he went south on Clark Street, and she +went north. + +Dear Reader, will you take my hand while I assist you to make +a one year's leap. Whoop-la! There you are. + +A man and a woman approached Tony's news stand. You are quite +right. But her willow plume was purple this time. A purple willow +plume would make Mario Doro look sophisticated. The man was +sandy-haired, raw-boned, with a loping gait, very blue eyes, very +white teeth, and an objectionably apparent Adam's apple. He came +from the north, and she from the south. + +In story books, and on the stage, when two people meet +unexpectedly after a long separation they always stop short, bring +one hand up to their breast, and say: "You!" Sometimes, +especially in the case where the heroine chances on the villain, +they say, simultaneously: "You! Here!" I have seen people +reunited under surprising circumstances, but they never said, +"You!" They said something quite unmelodramatic, and commonplace, +such as: "Well, look who's here!" or, "My land! If it ain't Ed! +How's Ed?" + +So it was that the Purple Willow Plume and the Adam's Apple +stopped, shook hands, and viewed one another while the Plume said, +"I kind of thought I'd bump into you. Felt it in my bones." And +the Adam's Apple said: + +"Then you're not living in Kewaskum--er--Wisconsin?" + +"Not any," responded she, briskly. "How do you happen to be +straying away from the tapestries, and the yew trees and the ghost, +and the pink roses, and the garden gloves, and the silver +tea-service with the coat-of-arms on it?" + +A slow, grim smile overspread the features of the man. "You +tell yours first," he said. + +"Well," began she, "in the first place, my name's Mercedes +Meron, of the Morning Glory Burlesquers, formerly Sadie Hayes of +Kewaskum, Wisconsin. I went home next day, like I said I would. +Say, Mr. Peel (you said Peel, didn't you? Guy Peel. Nice, neat +name), to this day, when I eat lobster late at night, and have +dreams, it's always about that visit home." + +"How long did you stay?" + +"I'm coming to that. Or maybe you can figure it out yourself +when I tell you I've been back eleven months. I wired the folks I +was coming, and then I came before they had a chance to answer. +When the train reached Kewaskum I stepped off into the arms of a +dowd in a home-made-made-over-year-before-last suit, and a hat that +would have been funny if it hadn't been so pathetic. I grabbed her +by the shoulders, and I held her off, and looked--looked at the +wrinkles, and the sallow complexion, and the coat with the sleeves +in wrong, and the mashed hat (I told you Lil used to be the village +peach, didn't I?) and I says: + +"`For Gawd's sakes, Lil, does your husband beat you?' + +"`Steve!' she shrieks, `beat me! You must be crazy!' + +"`Well, if he don't, he ought to. Those clothes are grounds +for divorce,' I says. + +"Mr. Guy Peel, it took me just four weeks to get wise to the +fact that the way to cure homesickness is to go home. I spent +those four weeks trying to revolutionize my sister-in-law's house, +dress, kids, husband, wall paper and parlor carpet. I took all the +doilies from under the ornaments and spoke my mind on the subject +of the hand-painted lamp, and Lil hates me for it yet, and will to +her dying day. I fitted three dresses for her, and made her get +some corsets that she'll never wear. They have roast pork for +dinner on Sundays, and they never go to the theater, and they like +bread pudding, and they're happy. I wasn't. They treated me fine, +and it was home, all right, but not my home. It was the same, but +I was different. Eleven years away from anything makes it shrink, +if you know what I mean. I guess maybe you do. I remember that I +used to think that the Grand View Hotel was a regular little +oriental palace that was almost too luxurious to be respectable, +and that the traveling men who stopped there were gods, and just to +prance past the hotel after supper had the Atlantic City board walk +looking like a back alley on a rainy night. Well, everything had +sort of shriveled up just like that. The popcorn gave me +indigestion, and I burned the skin off my nose popping it. +Kneading bread gave me the backache, and the blamed stuff wouldn't +raise right. I got so I was crazy to hear the roar of an L train, +and the sound of a crossing policeman's whistle. I got to thinking +how Michigan Avenue looks, downtown, with the lights shining down +on the asphalt, and all those people eating in the swell hotels, +and the autos, and the theater crowds and the windows, and--well, +I'm back. Glad I went? You said it. Because it made me so darned +glad to get back. I've found out one thing, and it's a great +little lesson when you get it learned. Most of us are where we are +because we belong there, and if we didn't, we wouldn't be. Say, +that does sound mixed, don't it? But it's straight. Now you tell +yours." + +"I think you've said it all," began Guy Peel. "It's queer, +isn't it, how twelve years of America will spoil one for afternoon +tea, and yew trees, and tapestries, and lace caps, and roses. The +mater was glad to see me, but she said I smelled woolly. They +think a Navajo blanket is a thing the Indians wear on the war path, +and they don't know whether Texas is a state, or a mineral water. +It was slow--slow. About the time they were taking afternoon tea, +I'd be reckoning how the boys would be rounding up the cattle for +the night, and about the time we'd sit down to dinner something +seemed to whisk the dinner table, and the flowers, and the men and +women in evening clothes right out of sight, like magic, and I +could see the boys stretched out in front of the bunk house after +their supper of bacon, and beans, and biscuit, and coffee. They'd +be smoking their pipes that smelled to Heaven, and further, and +Wing would be squealing one of his creepy old Chink songs out in +the kitchen, and the sky would be--say, Miss Meron, did you ever +see the night sky, out West? Purple, you know, and soft as soap- +suds, and so near that you want to reach up and touch it with your +hand. Toward the end my mother used to take me off in a corner and +tell me that I hadn't spoken a word to the little girl that I had +taken in to dinner, and that if I couldn't forget my uncouth +western ways for an hour or two, at least, perhaps I'd better not +try to mingle with civilized people. I discovered that home isn't +always the place where you were born and bred. Home is the place +where your everyday clothes are, and where somebody, or something +needs you. They didn't need me over there in England. Lord no! +I was sick for the sight of a Navajo blanket. My shack's glowing +with them. And my books needed me, and the boys, and the critters, +and Kate." + +"Kate?" repeated Miss Meron, quickly. + +"Kate's my horse. I'm going back on the 5:25 to-night. This +is my regular trip, you know. I came around here to buy a paper, +because it has become a habit. And then, too, I sort of +felt--well, something told me that you----" + +"You're a nice boy," said Miss Meron. "By the way, did I tell +you that I married the manager of the show the week after I got +back? We go to Bloomington to-night, and then we jump to St. Paul. +I came around here just as usual, because--well--because----" + +Tony's gift for remembering faces and facts amounts to genius. + +With two deft movements he whisked two papers from among the many +in the rack, and held them out. + +"Kewaskum Courier?" he suggested. + +"Nix," said Mercedes Meron, "I'll take a Chicago Scream." + +"London Times?" said Tony. + +"No," replied Guy Peel. "Give me the San Antonio Express." + + + + + + +X + + +THE HOMELY HEROINE + +Millie Whitcomb, of the fancy goods and notions, beckoned me with +her finger. I had been standing at Kate O'Malley's counter, +pretending to admire her new basket-weave suitings, but in reality +reveling in her droll account of how, in the train coming up from +Chicago, Mrs. Judge Porterfield had worn the negro porter's coat +over her chilly shoulders in mistake for her husband's. Kate +O'Malley can tell a funny story in a way to make the after-dinner +pleasantries of a Washington diplomat sound like the clumsy jests +told around the village grocery stove. + +"I wanted to tell you that I read that last story of yours," +said Millie, sociably, when I had strolled over to her counter, +"and I liked it, all but the heroine. She had an `adorable throat' +and hair that `waved away from her white brow,' and eyes that `now +were blue and now gray.' Say, why don't you write a story about an +ugly girl?" + +"My land!" protested I. "It's bad enough trying to make them +accept my stories as it is. That last heroine was a raving beauty, +but she came back eleven times before the editor of Blakely's +succumbed to her charms." + +Millie's fingers were busy straightening the contents of a +tray of combs and imitation jet barrettes. Millie's fingers were +not intended for that task. They are slender, tapering fingers, +pink-tipped and sensitive. + +"I should think," mused she, rubbing a cloudy piece of jet +with a bit of soft cloth, "that they'd welcome a homely one with +relief. These goddesses are so cloying." + +Millie Whitcomb's black hair is touched with soft mists of +gray, and she wears lavender shirtwaists and white stocks edged +with lavender. There is a Colonial air about her that has nothing +to do with celluloid combs and imitation jet barrettes. It +breathes of dim old rooms, rich with the tones of mahogany and old +brass, and Millie in the midst of it, gray-gowned, a soft white +fichu crossed upon her breast. + +In our town the clerks are not the pert and gum-chewing young +persons that story-writers are wont to describe. The girls at +Bascom's are institutions. They know us all by our first names, +and our lives are as an open book to them. Kate O'Malley, who has +been at Bascom's for so many years that she is rumored to have +stock in the company, may be said to govern the fashions of our +town. She is wont to say, when we express a fancy for gray as the +color of our new spring suit: + +"Oh, now, Nellie, don't get gray again. You had it year +before last, and don't you think it was just the least leetle bit +trying? Let me show you that green that came in yesterday. I said +the minute I clapped my eyes on it that it was just the color for +you, with your brown hair and all." + +And we end by deciding on the green. + +The girls at Bascom's are not gossips--they are too busy for +that--but they may be said to be delightfully well informed. How +could they be otherwise when we go to Bascom's for our wedding +dresses and party favors and baby flannels? There is news at +Bascom's that our daily paper never hears of, and wouldn't dare +print if it did. + +So when Millie Whitcomb, of the fancy goods and notions, +expressed her hunger for a homely heroine, I did not resent the +suggestion. On the contrary, it sent me home in thoughtful mood, +for Millie Whitcomb has acquired a knowledge of human nature in the +dispensing of her fancy goods and notions. It set me casting about +for a really homely heroine. + +There never has been a really ugly heroine in fiction. +Authors have started bravely out to write of an unlovely woman, but +they never have had the courage to allow her to remain plain. On +Page 237 she puts on a black lace dress and red roses, and the +combination brings out unexpected tawny lights in her hair, and +olive tints in her cheeks, and there she is, the same old beautiful +heroine. Even in the "Duchess" books one finds the simple Irish +girl, on donning a green corduroy gown cut square at the neck, +transformed into a wild-rose beauty, at sight of whom a ball-room +is hushed into admiring awe. There's the case of jane Eyre, too. +She is constantly described as plain and mouse-like, but there are +covert hints as to her gray eyes and slender figure and clear skin, +and we have a sneaking notion that she wasn't such a fright after +all. + +Therefore, when I tell you that I am choosing Pearlie Schultz +as my leading lady you are to understand that she is ugly, not only +when the story opens, but to the bitter end. In the first place, +Pearlie is fat. Not, plump, or rounded, or dimpled, or deliciously +curved, but FAT. She bulges in all the wrong places, including her +chin. (Sister, who has a way of snooping over my desk in my +absence, says that I may as well drop this now, because nobody +would ever read it, anyway, least of all any sane editor. I +protest when I discover that Sis has been over my papers. It +bothers me. But she says you have to do these things when you have +a genius in the house, and cites the case of Kipling's +"Recessional," which was rescued from the depths of his wastebasket +by his wife.) + +Pearlie Schultz used to sit on the front porch summer evenings +and watch the couples stroll by, and weep in her heart. A fat girl +with a fat girl's soul is a comedy. But a fat girl with a thin +girl's soul is a tragedy. Pearlie, in spite of her two hundred +pounds, had the soul of a willow wand. + +The walk in front of Pearlie's house was guarded by a row of +big trees that cast kindly shadows. The strolling couples used to +step gratefully into the embrace of these shadows, and from them +into other embraces. Pearlie, sitting on the porch, could see them +dimly, although they could not see her. She could not help +remarking that these strolling couples were strangely lacking in +sprightly conversation. Their remarks were but fragmentary, +disjointed affairs, spoken in low tones with a queer, tremulous +note in them. When they reached the deepest, blackest, kindliest +shadow, which fell just before the end of the row of trees, the +strolling couples almost always stopped, and then there came a +quick movement, and a little smothered cry from the girl, and then +a sound, and then a silence. Pearlie, sitting alone on the porch +in the dark, listened to these things and blushed furiously. +Pearlie had never strolled into the kindly shadows with a little +beating of the heart, and she had never been surprised with a quick +arm about her and eager lips pressed warmly against her own. + +In the daytime Pearlie worked as public stenographer at the +Burke Hotel. She rose at seven in the morning, and rolled for +fifteen minutes, and lay on her back and elevated her heels in the +air, and stood stiff-kneed while she touched the floor with her +finger tips one hundred times, and went without her breakfast. At +the end of each month she usually found that she weighed three +pounds more than she had the month before. + +The folks at home never joked with Pearlie about her weight. +Even one's family has some respect for a life sorrow. Whenever +Pearlie asked that inevitable question of the fat woman: "Am I as +fat as she is?" her mother always answered: "You! Well, I should +hope not! You're looking real peaked lately, Pearlie. And your +blue skirt just ripples in the back, it's getting so big for you." + +Of such blessed stuff are mothers made. + +But if the gods had denied Pearlie all charms of face or form, +they had been decent enough to bestow on her one gift. Pearlie +could cook like an angel; no, better than an angel, for no angel +could be a really clever cook and wear those flowing kimono-like +sleeves. They'd get into the soup. Pearlie could take a piece of +rump and some suet and an onion and a cup or so of water, and +evolve a pot roast that you could cut with a fork. She could turn +out a surprisingly good cake with surprisingly few eggs, all +covered with white icing, and bearing cunning little jelly figures +on its snowy bosom. She could beat up biscuits that fell apart at +the lightest pressure, revealing little pools of golden butter +within. Oh, Pearlie could cook! + +On week days Pearlie rattled the typewriter keys, but on +Sundays she shooed her mother out of the kitchen. Her mother went, +protesting faintly: + +"Now, Pearlie, don't fuss so for dinner. You ought to get +your rest on Sunday instead of stewing over a hot stove all +morning." + +"Hot fiddlesticks, ma," Pearlie would say, cheerily. "It +ain't hot, because it's a gas stove. And I'll only get fat if I +sit around. You put on your black-and-white and go to church. +Call me when you've got as far as your corsets, and I'll puff your +hair for you in the back." + +In her capacity of public stenographer at the Burke Hotel, it +was Pearlie's duty to take letters dictated by traveling men and +beginning: "Yours of the 10th at hand. In reply would say. . . ." +or: "Enclosed please find, etc." As clinching proof of her +plainness it may be stated that none of the traveling men, not even +Max Baum, who was so fresh that the girl at the cigar counter +actually had to squelch him, ever called Pearlie "baby doll," or +tried to make a date with her. Not that Pearlie would ever have +allowed them to. But she never had had to reprove them. During +pauses in dictation she had a way of peering near-sightedly, over +her glasses at the dapper, well-dressed traveling salesman who was +rolling off the items on his sale bill. That is a trick which +would make the prettiest kind of a girl look owlish. + +On the night that Sam Miller strolled up to talk to her, +Pearlie was working late. She had promised to get out a long and +intricate bill for Max Baum, who travels for Kuhn and Klingman, so +that he might take the nine o'clock evening train. The +irrepressible Max had departed with much eclat and clatter, and +Pearlie was preparing to go home when Sam approached her. + +Sam had just come in from the Gayety Theater across the +street, whither he had gone in a vain search for amusement after +supper. He had come away in disgust. A soiled soubrette with +orange-colored hair and baby socks had swept her practiced eye over +the audience, and, attracted by Sam's good-looking blond head in +the second row, had selected him as the target of her song. She +had run up to the extreme edge of the footlights at the risk of +teetering over, and had informed Sam through the medium of song--to +the huge delight of the audience, and to Sam's red-faced +discomfiture--that she liked his smile, and he was just her style, +and just as cute as he could be, and just the boy for her. On +reaching the chorus she had whipped out a small, round mirror and, +assisted by the calcium-light man in the rear, had thrown a +wretched little spotlight on Sam's head. + +Ordinarily, Sam would not have minded it. But that evening, +in the vest pocket just over the place where he supposed his heart +to be reposed his girl's daily letter. They were to be married on +Sam's return to New York from his first long trip. In the letter +near his heart she had written prettily and seriously about +traveling men, and traveling men's wives, and her little code for +both. The fragrant, girlish, grave little letter had caused Sam to +sour on the efforts of the soiled soubrette. + +As soon as possible he had fled up the aisle and across the +street to the hotel writing-room. There he had spied Pearlie's +good-humored, homely face, and its contrast with the silly, red +and-white countenance of the unlaundered soubrette had attracted +his homesick heart. + +Pearlie had taken some letters from him earlier in the day. +Now, in his hunger for companionship, he, strolled up to her desk, +just as she was putting her typewriter to bed. + +"Gee I This is a lonesome town!" said Sam, smiling down at +her. + +Pearlie glanced up at him, over her glasses. "I guess you +must be from New York," she said. "I've heard a real New Yorker +can get bored in Paris. In New York the sky is bluer, and the +grass is greener, and the girls are prettier, and the steaks are +thicker, and the buildings are higher, and the streets are wider, +and the air is finer, than the sky, or the grass, or the girls, or +the steaks, or the air of any place else in the world. Ain't +they?" + +"Oh, now," protested Sam, "quit kiddin' me! You'd be lonesome +for the little old town, too, if you'd been born and dragged up in +it, and hadn't seen it for four months." + +"New to the road, aren't you?" asked Pearlie. + +Sam blushed a little. "How did you know?" + +"Well, you generally can tell. They don't know what to do +with themselves evenings, and they look rebellious when they go +into the dining-room. The old-timers just look resigned." + +"You've picked up a thing or two around here, haven't you? I +wonder if the time will ever come when I'll look resigned to a +hotel dinner, after four months of 'em. Why, girl, I've got so I +just eat the things that are covered up--like baked potatoes in the +shell, and soft boiled eggs, and baked apples, and oranges that I +can peel, and nuts." + +"Why, you poor kid," breathed Pearlie, her pale eyes fixed on +him in motherly pity. "You oughtn't to do that. You'll get so +thin your girl won't know you." + +Sam looked up quickly. "How in thunderation did you +know----?" + +Pearlie was pinning on her hat, and she spoke succinctly, her +hatpins between her teeth: "You've been here two days now, and I +notice you dictate all your letters except the longest one, and you +write that one off in a corner of the writing-room all by yourself, +with your cigar just glowing like a live coal, and you squint up +through the smoke, and grin to yourself." + +"Say, would you mind if I walked home with you?" asked Sam. + +If Pearlie was surprised, she was woman enough not to show +it. She picked up her gloves and hand bag, locked her drawer with +a click, and smiled her acquiescence. And when Pearlie smiled she +was awful. + +It was a glorious evening in the early summer, moonless, +velvety, and warm. As they strolled homeward, Sam told her all +about the Girl, as is the way of traveling men the world over. He +told her about the tiny apartment they had taken, and how he would +be on the road only a couple of years more, as this was just a +try-out that the firm always insisted on. And they stopped under +an arc light while Sam showed her the picture in his watch, as is +also the way of traveling men since time immemorial. + +Pearlie made an excellent listener. He was so boyish, and so +much in love, and so pathetically eager to make good with the firm, +and so happy to have some one in whom to confide. + +"But it's a dog's life, after all," reflected Sam, again after +the fashion of all traveling men. "Any fellow on the road earns +his salary these days, you bet. I used to think it was all getting +up when you felt like it, and sitting in the big front window of +the hotel, smoking a cigar and watching the pretty girls go by. I +wasn't wise to the packing, and the unpacking, and the rotten train +service, and the grouchy customers, and the canceled bills, and the +grub." + +Pearlie nodded understandingly. "A man told me once that +twice a week regularly he dreamed of the way his wife cooked +noodle-soup." + +"My folks are German," explained Sam. "And my mother--can she +cook! Well, I just don't seem able to get her potato pancakes out +of my mind. And her roast beef tasted and looked like roast beef, +and not like a wet red flannel rag." + +At this moment Pearlie was seized with a brilliant idea. +"To-morrow's Sunday. You're going to Sunday here, aren't you? +Come over and eat your dinner with us. If you have forgotten the +taste of real food, I can give you a dinner that'll jog your +memory." + +"Oh, really," protested Sam. "You're awfully good, but I +couldn't think of it. I----" + +"You needn't be afraid. I'm not letting you in for anything. +I may be homelier than an English suffragette, and I know my lines +are all bumps, but there's one thing you can't take away from me, +and that's my cooking hand. I can cook, boy, in a way to make your +mother's Sunday dinner, with company expected, look like Mrs. +Newlywed's first attempt at `riz' biscuits. And I don't mean any +disrespect to your mother when I say it. I'm going to have +noodle-soup, and fried chicken, and hot biscuits, and creamed beans +from our own garden, and strawberry shortcake with real----" + +"Hush!" shouted Sam. "If I ain't there, you'll know that I +passed away during the night, and you can telephone the clerk to +break in my door." + +The Grim Reaper spared him, and Sam came, and was introduced +to the family, and ate. He put himself in a class with Dr. +Johnson, and Ben Brust, and Gargantua, only that his table manners +were better. He almost forgot to talk during the soup, and he came +back three times for chicken, and by the time the strawberry +shortcake was half consumed he was looking at Pearlie with a sort +of awe in his eyes. + +That night he came over to say good-bye before taking his +train out for Ishpeming. He and Pearlie strolled down as far as +the park and back again. + +"I didn't eat any supper," said Sam. "It would have been +sacrilege, after that dinner of yours. Honestly, I don't know how +to thank you, being so good to a stranger like me. When I come +back next trip, I expect to have the Kid with me, and I want her to +meet you, by George! She's a winner and a pippin, but she wouldn't +know whether a porterhouse was stewed or frapped. I'll tell her +about you, you bet. In the meantime, if there's anything I can do +for you, I'm yours to command." + +Pearlie turned to him suddenly. "You see that clump of thick +shadows ahead of us, where those big trees stand in front of our +house?" + +"Sure," replied Sam. + +"Well, when we step into that deepest, blackest shadow, right +in front of our porch, I want you to reach up, and put your arm +around me and kiss me on the mouth, just once. And when you get +back to New York you can tell your girl I asked you to." + +There broke from him a little involuntary exclamation. It +might have been of pity, and it might have been of surprise. It +had in it something of both, but nothing of mirth. And as they +stepped into the depths of the soft black shadows he took off his +smart straw sailor, which was so different from the sailors that +the boys in our town wear. And there was in the gesture something +of reverence. + + +Millie Whitcomb didn't like the story of the homely heroine, +after all. She says that a steady diet of such literary fare would +give her blue indigestion. Also she objects on the ground that no +one got married--that is, the heroine didn't. And she says that a +heroine who does not get married isn't a heroine at all. She +thinks she prefers the pink-cheeked, goddess kind, in the end. + + + + + +XI + + +SUN DRIED + +There come those times in the life of every woman when she feels +that she must wash her hair at once. And then she does it. The +feeling may come upon her suddenly, without warning, at any hour of +the day or night; or its approach may be slow and insidious, so +that the victim does not at first realize what it is that fills her +with that sensation of unrest. But once in the clutches of the +idea she knows no happiness, no peace, until she has donned a +kimono, gathered up two bath towels, a spray, and the green soap, +and she breathes again only when, head dripping, she makes for the +back yard, the sitting-room radiator, or the side porch (depending +on her place of residence, and the time of year). + +Mary Louise was seized with the feeling at ten o'clock on a +joyous June morning. She tried to fight it off because she had got +to that stage in the construction of her story where her hero was +beginning to talk and act a little more like a real live man, and +a little less like a clothing store dummy. (By the way, they don't +seem to be using those pink-and-white, black-mustachioed figures +any more. Another good simile gone.) + +Mary Louise had been battling with that hero for a week. He +wouldn't make love to the heroine. In vain had Mary Louise striven +to instill red blood into his watery veins. He and the beauteous +heroine were as far apart as they had been on Page One of the +typewritten manuscript. Mary Louise was developing nerves over +him. She had bitten her finger nails, and twisted her hair into +corkscrews over him. She had risen every morning at the chaste +hour of seven, breakfasted hurriedly, tidied the tiny two-room +apartment, and sat down in the unromantic morning light to wrestle +with her stick of a hero. She had made her heroine a creature of +grace, wit, and loveliness, but thus far the hero had not once +clasped her to him fiercely, or pressed his lips to her hair, her +eyes, her cheeks. Nay (as the story-writers would put it), he +hadn't even devoured her with his gaze. + +This morning, however, he had begun to show some signs of +life. He was developing possibilities. Whereupon, at this +critical stage in the story-writing game, the hair-washing mania +seized Mary Louise. She tried to dismiss the idea. She pushed it +out of her mind, and slammed the door. It only popped in again. +Her fingers wandered to her hair. Her eyes wandered to the June +sunshine outside. The hero was left poised, arms outstretched, and +unquenchable love-light burning in his eyes, while Mary Louise +mused, thus: + +"It certainly feels sticky. It's been six weeks, at least. +And I could sit here-by the window--in the sun--and dry it----" + +With a jerk she brought her straying fingers away from her +hair, and her wandering eyes away from the sunshine, and her +runaway thoughts back to the typewritten page. For three minutes +the snap of the little disks crackled through the stillness of the +tiny apartment. Then, suddenly, as though succumbing to an +irresistible force, Mary Louise rose, walked across the room (a +matter of six steps), removing hairpins as she went, and shoved +aside the screen which hid the stationary wash-bowl by day. + +Mary Louise turned on a faucet and held her finger under it, +while an agonized expression of doubt and suspense overspread her +features. Slowly the look of suspense gave way to a smile of +beatific content. A sigh--deep, soul-filling, satisfied--welled up +from Mary Louise's breast. The water was hot. + +Half an hour later, head swathed turban fashion in a towel, +Mary Louise strolled over to the window. Then she stopped, aghast. +In that half hour the sun had slipped just around the corner, and +was now beating brightly and uselessly against the brick wall a few +inches away. Slowly Mary Louise unwound the towel, bent double in +the contortionistic attitude that women assume on such occasions, +and watched with melancholy eyes while the drops trickled down to +the ends of her hair, and fell, unsunned, to the floor. + +"If only," thought Mary Louise, bitterly, "there was such a +thing as a back yard in this city--a back yard where I could squat +on the grass, in the sunshine and the breeze-- Maybe there is. +I'll ask the janitor." + +She bound her hair in the turban again, and opened the door. +At the far end of the long, dim hallway Charlie, the janitor, was +doing something to the floor with a mop and a great deal of sloppy +water, whistling the while with a shrill abandon that had announced +his presence to Mary Louise. + +"Oh, Charlie!" called Mary Louise. "Charlee! Can you come +here just a minute?" + +"You bet!" answered Charlie, with the accent on the you; and +came. + +"Charlie, is there a back yard, or something, where the sun +is, you know--some nice, grassy place where I can sit, and dry my +hair, and let the breezes blow it?" + +"Back yard!" grinned Charlie. "I guess you're new to N' York, +all right, with ground costin' a million or so a foot. Not much +they ain't no back yard, unless you'd give that name to an +ash-barrel, and a dump heap or so, and a crop of tin cans. I +wouldn't invite a goat to set in it." + +Disappointment curved Mary Louise's mouth. It was a lovely +enough mouth at any time, but when it curved in +disappointment--ell, janitors are but human, after all. + +"Tell you what, though," said Charlie. "I'll let you up on +the roof. It ain't long on grassy spots up there, but say, breeze! +Like a summer resort. On a clear day you can see way over 's far +'s Eight' Avenoo. Only for the love of Mike don't blab it to the +other women folks in the buildin', or I'll have the whole works of +'em usin' the roof for a general sun, massage, an' beauty parlor. +Come on." + +"I'll never breathe it to a soul," promised Mary Louise, +solemnly. "Oh, wait a minute." + +She turned back into her room, appearing again in a moment +with something green in her hand. + +"What's that?" asked Charlie, suspiciously. + +Mary Louise, speeding down the narrow hallway after Charlie, +blushed a little. "It--it's parsley," she faltered. + +"Parsley!" exploded Charlie. "Well, what the----" + +"Well, you see. I'm from the country," explained Mary Louise, +"and in the country, at this time of year, when you dry your hair +in the back yard, you get the most wonderful scent of green and +growing things--not only of flowers, you know, but of the new +things just coming up in the vegetable garden, and--and--well, this +parsley happens to be the only really gardeny thing I have, so I +thought I'd bring it along and sniff it once in a while, and make +believe it's the country, up there on the roof." + +Half-way up the perilous little flight of stairs that led to +the roof, Charlie, the janitor, turned to gaze down at Mary Louise, +who was just behind, and keeping fearfully out of the way of +Charlie's heels. + +"Wimmin," observed Charlie, the janitor, "is nothin' but +little girls in long skirts, and their hair done up." + +"I know it," giggled Mary Louise, and sprang up on the roof, +looking, with her towel-swathed head, like a lady Aladdin leaping +from her underground grotto. + +The two stood there a moment, looking up at the blue sky, and +all about at the June sunshine. + +"If you go up high enough," observed Mary Louise, "the +sunshine is almost the same as it is in the country, isn't it?" + +"I shouldn't wonder," said Charlie, "though Calvary cemetery +is about as near's I'll ever get to the country. Say, you can set +here on this soap box and let your feet hang down. The last +janitor's wife used to hang her washin' up here, I guess. I'll +leave this door open, see?" + +"You're so kind," smiled Mary Louise. + +"Kin you blame me?" retorted the gallant Charles. And vanished. + +Mary Louise, perched on the soap box, unwound her turban, +draped the damp towel over her shoulders, and shook out the wet +masses of her hair. Now the average girl shaking out the wet +masses of her hair looks like a drowned rat. But Nature had been +kind to Mary Louise. She had given her hair that curled in little +ringlets when wet, and that waved in all the right places when dry. + +Just now it hung in damp, shining strands on either side of her +face, so that she looked most remarkably like one of those +oval-faced, great-eyed, red-lipped women that the old Italian +artists were so fond of painting. + +Below her, blazing in the sun, lay the great stone and iron +city. Mary Louise shook out her hair idly, with one hand, sniffed +her parsley, shut her eyes, threw back her head, and began to sing, +beating time with her heel against the soap box, and forgetting all +about the letter that had come that morning, stating that it was +not from any lack of merit, etc. She sang, and sniffed her +parsley, and waggled her hair in the breeze, and beat time, idly, +with the heel of her little boot, when---- + +"Holy Cats!" exclaimed a man's voice. "What is this, anyway? +A Coney Island concession gone wrong?" + +Mary Louise's eyes unclosed in a flash, and Mary Louise gazed +upon an irate-looking, youngish man, who wore shabby slippers, and +no collar with a full dress air. + +"I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter," +growled the collarless man. + +"Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Are +you the scrub-lady's stalwart son?" + +"Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike with +their hair down. I ask your pardon, though." + +"Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all men +look like picked chickens with their collars off." + +At that the collarless man, who until now had been standing on +the top step that led up to the roof, came slowly forward, stepped +languidly over a skylight or two, draped his handkerchief over a +convenient chimney and sat down, hugging his long, lean legs to +him. + +"Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked. + +"It was," said Mary Louise. + +"Ha!" exploded he, again. Then, "Where's your mirror?" he +demanded. + +"Mirror?" echoed Mary Louise. + +"Certainly. You have the hair, the comb, the attitude, and +the general Lorelei effect. Also your singing lured me to your +shores." + +"You didn't look lured," retorted Mary Louise. "You looked +lurid." + +"What's that stuff in your hand?" next demanded he. He really +was a most astonishingly rude young man. + +"Parsley." + +"Parsley!" shouted he, much as Charlie had done. "Well, what +the----" + +"Back home," elucidated Mary Louise once more, patiently, +"after you've washed your hair you dry it in the back yard, sitting +on the grass, in the sunshine and the breeze. And the garden +smells come to you--the nasturtiums, and the pansies, and the +geraniums, you know, and even that clean grass smell, and the +pungent vegetable odor, and there are ants, and bees, and +butterflies----" + +"Go on," urged the young man, eagerly. + +"And Mrs. Next Door comes out to hang up a few stockings, and +a jabot or so, and a couple of baby dresses that she has just +rubbed through, and she calls out to you: + +"`Washed your hair?' + +"`Yes,' you say. `It was something awful, and I wanted it +nice for Tuesday night. But I suppose I won't be able to do a +thing with it.' + +"And then Mrs. Next Door stands there a minute on the +clothes-reel platform, with the wind whipping her skirts about her, +and the fresh smell of the growing things coming to her. And +suddenly she says: `I guess I'll wash mine too, while the baby's +asleep.'" + +The collarless young man rose from his chimney, picked up his +handkerchief, and moved to the chimney just next to Mary Louise's +soap box. + +"Live here?" he asked, in his impolite way. + +"If I did not, do you think that I would choose this as the +one spot in all New York in which to dry my hair?" + +"When I said, `Live here,' I didn't mean just that. I meant +who are you, and why are you here, and where do you come from, and +do you sign your real name to your stuff, or use a nom de plume?" + +"Why--how did you know?" gasped Mary Louise. + +"Give me five minutes more," grinned the keen-eyed young man, +"and I'll tell you what make your typewriter is, and where the last +rejection slip came from." + +"Oh!" said Mary Louise again. "Then you are the scrub-lady's +stalwart son, and you've been ransacking my waste-basket." + +Quite unheeding, the collarless man went on, "And so you +thought you could write, and you came on to New York (you know one +doesn't just travel to New York, or ride to it, or come to it; one +`comes on' to New York), and now you're not so sure about the +writing, h'm? And back home what did you do?" + +"Back home I taught school--and hated it. But I kept on +teaching until I'd saved five hundred dollars. Every other school +ma'am in the world teaches until she has saved five hundred +dollars, and then she packs two suit-cases, and goes to Europe from +June until September. But I saved my five hundred for New York. +I've been here six months now, and the five hundred has shrunk to +almost nothing, and if I don't break into the magazines pretty +soon----" + +"Then?" + +"Then," said Mary Louise, with a quaver in her voice, "I'll +have to go back and teach thirty-seven young devils that six times +five is thirty, put down the naught and carry six, and that the +French are a gay people, fond of dancing and light wines. But I'll +scrimp on everything from hairpins to shoes, and back again, +including pretty collars, and gloves, and hats, until I've saved up +another five hundred, and then I'll try it all over again, because +I--can--write." + +From the depths of one capacious pocket the inquiring man took +a small black pipe, from another a bag of tobacco, from another a +match. The long, deft fingers made a brief task of it. + +"I didn't ask you," he said, after the first puff, "because I +could see that you weren't the fool kind that objects." Then, with +amazing suddenness, "Know any of the editors?" + +"Know them!" cried Mary Louise. "Know them! If camping on +their doorsteps, and haunting the office buildings, and cajoling, +and fighting with secretaries and office boys, and assistants and +things constitutes knowing them, then we're chums." + +"What makes you think you can write?" sneered the thin man. + +Mary Louise gathered up her brush, and comb, and towel, and +parsley, and jumped off the soap box. She pointed belligerently at +her tormentor with the hand that held the brush. + +"Being the scrub-lady's stalwart son, you wouldn't understand. +But I can write. I sha'n't go under. I'm going to make this town +count me in as the four million and oneth. Sometimes I get so +tired of being nobody at all, with not even enough cleverness in me +to wrest a living from this big city, that I long to stand out at +the edge of the curbing, and take off my hat, and wave it, and +shout, `Say, you four million uncaring people, I'm Mary Louise +Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, and I like your town, and I want to +stay here. Won't you please pay some slight attention to me. No +one knows I'm here except myself, and the rent collector.'" + +"And I," put in the rude young man. + +"O, you," sneered Mary Louise, equally rude, "you don't +count." + +The collarless young man in the shabby slippers smiled a +curious little twisted smile. "You never can tell," he grinned, "I +might." Then, quite suddenly, he stood up, knocked the ash out of +his pipe, and came over to Mary Louise, who was preparing to +descend the steep little flight of stairs. + +"Look here, Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, you +stop trying to write the slop you're writing now. Stop it. Drop +the love tales that are like the stuff that everybody else writes. +Stop trying to write about New York. You don't know anything about +it. Listen. You get back to work, and write about Mrs. Next Door, +and the hair-washing, and the vegetable garden, and bees, and the +back yard, understand? You write the way you talked to me, and +then you send your stuff in to Cecil Reeves." + +"Reeves!" mocked Mary Louise. "Cecil Reeves, of The Earth? +He wouldn't dream of looking at my stuff. And anyway, it really +isn't your affair." And began to descend the stairs. + +"Well, you know you brought me up here, kicking with your +heels, and singing at the top of your voice. I couldn't work. So +it's really your fault." Then, just as Mary Louise had almost +disappeared down the stairway he put his last astonishing question. + +"How often do you wash your hair?" he demanded. + +"Well, back home," confessed Mary Louise, "every six weeks or +so was enough, but----" + +"Not here," put in the rude young man, briskly. "Never. +That's all very well for the country, but it won't do in the city. +Once a week, at least, and on the roof. Cleanliness demands it." + +"But if I'm going back to the country," replied Mary Louise, +"it won't be necessary." + +"But you're not," calmly said the collarless young man, just +as Mary Louise vanished from sight. + +Down at the other end of the hallway on Mary Louise's floor +Charlie, the janitor, was doing something to the windows now, with +a rag, and a pail of water. + +"Get it dry?" he called out, sociably. + +"Yes, thank you," answered Mary Louise, and turned to enter +her own little apartment. Then, hesitatingly, she came back to +Charlie's window. + +"There--there was a man up there--a very tall, very thin, very +rude, very--that is, rather nice youngish oldish man, in slippers, +and no collar. I wonder----" + +"Oh, him!" snorted Charlie. "He don't show himself onct in a +blue moon. None of the other tenants knows he's up there. Has the +whole top floor to himself, and shuts himself up there for weeks at +a time, writin' books, or some such truck. That guy, he owns the +building." + +"Owns the building!" said Mary Louise, faintly. "Why he +looked--he looked----" + +"Sure," grinned Charlie. "That's him. Name's Reeves--Cecil +Reeves. Say, ain't that a divil of a name?" + + + + + + +XII + + +WHERE THE CAR TURNS AT 18TH + +This will be a homing pigeon story. Though I send it ever so +far--though its destination be the office of a home-and-fireside +magazine or one of the kind with a French story in the back, it +will return to me. After each flight its feathers will be a little +more rumpled, its wings more weary, its course more wavering, +until, battered, spent, broken, it will flutter to rest in the +waste basket. + +And yet, though its message may never be delivered, it must be +sent, because--well, because---- + +You know where the car turns at Eighteenth? There you see a +glaringly attractive billboard poster. It depicts groups of +smiling, white-clad men standing on tropical shores, with waving +palms overhead, and a glimpse of blue sea in the distance. The +wording beneath the picture runs something like this: + +"Young men wanted. An unusual opportunity for travel, +education, and advancement. Good pay. No expenses." + +When the car turns at Eighteenth, and I see that, I remember +Eddie Houghton back home. And when I remember Eddie Houghton I see +red. + +The day after Eddie Houghton finished high school he went to +work. In our town we don't take a job. We accept a position. Our +paper had it that "Edwin Houghton had accepted a position as clerk +and assistant chemist at the Kunz drugstore, where he would take up +his new duties Monday." + +His new duties seemed, at first, to consist of opening the +store in the morning, sweeping out, and whizzing about town on a +bicycle with an unnecessarily insistent bell, delivering +prescriptions which had been telephoned for. But by the time the +summer had really set in Eddie was installed back of the soda +fountain. + +There never was anything better looking than Eddie Houghton in +his white duck coat. He was one of those misleadingly gold and +pink and white men. I say misleadingly because you usually +associate pink-and-whiteness with such words as sissy and +mollycoddle. Eddie was neither. He had played quarter-back every +year from his freshman year, and he could putt the shot and cut +classes with the best of 'em. But in that white duck coat with the +braiding and frogs he had any musical-comedy, white-flannel tenor +lieutenant whose duty it is to march down to the edge of the +footlights, snatch out his sword, and warble about his country's +flag, looking like a flat-nosed, blue-gummed Igorrote. Kunz's soda +water receipts swelled to double their usual size, and the girls' +complexions were something awful that summer. I've known Nellie +Donovan to take as many as three ice cream sodas and two phosphates +a day when Eddie was mixing. He had a way of throwing in a +good-natured smile, and an easy flow of conversation with every +drink. While indulging in a little airy persiflage the girls had +a great little trick of pursing their mouths into rosebud shapes +over their soda straws, and casting their eyes upward at Eddie. +They all knew the trick, and its value, so that at night Eddie's +dreams were haunted by whole rows of rosily pursed lips, and seas +of upturned, adoring eyes. Of course we all noticed that on those +rare occasions when Josie Morehouse came into Kunz's her glass was +heaped higher with ice cream than that of any of the other girls, +and that Eddie's usually easy flow of talk was interspersed with +certain stammerings and stutterings. But Josie didn't come in +often. She had a lot of dignity for a girl of eighteen. Besides, +she was taking the teachers' examinations that summer, when the +other girls were playing tennis and drinking sodas. + +Eddie really hated the soda water end of the business, as +every soda clerk in the world does. But he went about it +good-naturedly. He really wanted to learn the drug business, but +the boss knew he had a drawing card, and insisted that Eddie go +right on concocting faerie queens and strawberry sundaes, and +nectars and Kunz's specials. One Saturday, when he happened to +have on hand an over-supply of bananas that would have spoiled over +Sunday, he invented a mess and called it the Eddie Extra, and the +girls swarmed on it like flies around a honey pot. + +That kind of thing would have spoiled most boys. But Eddie +had a sensible mother. On those nights when he used to come home +nauseated with dealing out chop suey sundaes and orangeades, and +saying that there was no future for a fellow in our dead little +hole, his mother would give him something rather special for +supper, and set him hoeing and watering the garden. + +So Eddie stuck to his job, and waited, and all the time he was +saying, with a melting look, to the last silly little girl who was +drinking her third soda, "Somebody looks mighty sweet in pink +to-day," or while he was doping to-morrow's ball game with one of +the boys who dropped in for a cigar, he was thinking of bigger +things, and longing for a man-size job. + +The man-size job loomed up before Eddie's dazzled eyes when he +least expected it. It was at the close of a particularly hot day +when it seemed to Eddie that every one in town had had everything +from birch beer to peach ice cream. On his way home to supper he +stopped at the postoffice with a handful of letters that old man +Kunz had given him to mail. His mother had told him that they +would have corn out of their own garden for supper that night, and +Eddie was in something of a hurry. He and his mother were great +pals. + +In one corner of the dim little postoffice lobby a man was +busily tacking up posters. The whitewashed walls bloomed with +them. They were gay, attractive-looking posters, done in red and +blue and green, and after Eddie had dumped his mail into the slot, +and had called out, "Hello, Jake!" to the stamp clerk, whose back +was turned to the window, he strolled idly over to where the man +was putting the finishing touches to his work. The man was dressed +in a sailor suit of blue, with a picturesque silk scarf knotted at +his hairy chest. He went right on tacking posters. + +They certainly were attractive pictures. Some showed groups +of stalwart, immaculately clad young gods lolling indolently on +tropical shores, with a splendor of palms overhead, and a sparkling +blue sea in the distance. Others depicted a group of white-clad +men wading knee-deep in the surf as they laughingly landed a cutter +on the sandy beach. There was a particularly fascinating one +showing two barefooted young chaps on a wave-swept raft engaged in +that delightfully perilous task known as signaling. Another showed +the keen-eyed gunners busy about the big guns. + +Eddie studied them all. + +The man finished his task and looked up, quite casually. + +"Hello, kid," he said. + +"Hello," answered Eddie. Then--"That's some picture gallery +you're giving us." + +The man in the sailor suit fell back a pace or two and +surveyed his work with a critical but satisfied eye. + +"Pitchers," he said, "don't do it justice. We've opened a +recruiting office here. Looking for young men with brains, and +muscle, and ambition. It's a great chance. We don't get to these +here little towns much." + +He placed a handbill in Eddie's hand. Eddie glanced down at +it sheepishly. + +"I've heard," he said, "that it's a hard life." + +The man in the sailor suit threw back his head and laughed, +displaying a great deal of hairy throat and chest. "Hard!" he +jeered, and slapped one of the gay-colored posters with the back +of his hand. "You see that! Well, it ain't a bit exaggerated. +Not a bit. I ought to know. It's the only life for a young man, +especially for a guy in a little town. There's no chance here for +a bright young man, and if he goes to the city, what does he get? +The city's jam full of kids that flock there in the spring and +fall, looking for jobs, and thinking the city's sittin' up waitin' +for 'em. And where do they land? In the dime lodging houses, +that's where. In the navy you see the world, and it don't cost you +a cent. A guy is a fool to bury himself alive in a hole like this. +You could be seeing the world, traveling by sea from port to port, +from country to country, from ocean to ocean, amid ever-changing +scenery and climatic conditions, to see and study the habits and +conditions of the strange races----" + +It rolled off his tongue with fascinating glibness. Eddie +glanced at the folder in his hand. + +"I always did like the water," he said. + +"Sure," agreed the hairy man, heartily. "What young feller +don't? I'll tell you what. Come on over to the office with me and +I'll show you some real stuff." + +"It's my supper time," hesitated Eddie. "I guess I'd better +not----" + +"Oh, supper," laughed the man. "You come on and have supper +with me, kid." + +Eddie's pink cheeks went three shades pinker. "Gee! That'd +be great. But my mother--that is--she----" + +The man in the sailor suit laughed again--a laugh with a sting +in it. "A great big feller like you ain't tied to your ma's apron +strings are you?" + +"Not much I'm not!" retorted Eddie. "I'll telephone her when +I get to your hotel, that's what I'll do." + +But they were such fascinating things, those new booklets, and +the man had such marvelous tales to tell, that Eddie forgot trifles +like supper and waiting mothers. There were pictures taken on +board ship, showing frolics, and ball games, and minstrel shows and +glee clubs, and the men at mess, and each sailor sleeping snug as +a bug in his hammock. There were other pictures showing foreign +scenes and strange ports. Eddie's tea grew cold, and his apple pie +and cheese lay untasted on his plate. + +"Now me," said the recruiting officer, "I'm a married man. +But my wife, she wouldn't have it no other way. No, sir! She'll +be in the navy herself, I'll bet, when women vote. Why, before I +joined the navy I didn't know whether Guam was a vegetable or an +island, and Culebra wasn't in my geography. Now? Why, now I'm as +much at home in Porto Rico as I am in San Francisco. I'm as well +acquainted in Valparaiso as I am in Vermont, and I've run around +Cairo, Egypt, until I know it better than Cairo, Illinois. It's +the only way to see the world. You travel by sea from port to +port, from country to country, from ocean to ocean, amid +ever-changing scenery and climatic conditions, to see and study +the----" + +And Eddie forgot that it was Wednesday night, which was the +prescription clerk's night off; forgot that the boss was awaiting +his return that he might go home to his own supper; forgot his +mother, and her little treat of green corn out of the garden; +forgot everything in the wonder of this man's tales of people and +scenes such as he never dreamed could exist outside of a Jack +London story. Now and then Eddie interrupted with a, "Yes, +but----" that grew more and more infrequent, until finally they +ceased altogether. Eddie's man-size job had come. + +When we heard the news we all dropped in at the drug store to +joke with him about it. We had a good deal to say about rolling +gaits, and bell-shaped trousers, and anchors and sea serpents +tattooed on the arm. One of the boys scored a hit by slapping his +dime down on the soda fountain marble and bellowing for rum and +salt horse. Some one started to tease the little Morehouse girl +about sailors having sweethearts in every port, but when they saw +the look in her eyes they changed their mind, and stopped. It's +funny how a girl of twenty is a woman, when a man of twenty is a +boy. + +Eddie dished out the last of his chocolate ice cream sodas and +cherry phosphates and root beers, while the girls laughingly begged +him to bring them back kimonos from China, and scarves from the +Orient, and Eddie promised, laughing, too, but with a far-off, +eager look in his eyes. + +When the time came for him to go there was quite a little +bodyguard of us ready to escort him down to the depot. We picked +up two or three more outside O'Rourke's pool room, and a couple +more from the benches outside the hotel. Eddie walked ahead with +his mother. I have said that Mrs. Houghton was a sensible woman. +She was never more so than now. Any other mother would have gone +into hysterics and begged the recruiting officer to let her boy +off. But she knew better. Still, I think Eddie felt some +uncomfortable pangs when he looked at her set face. On the way to +the depot we had to pass the Agassiz School, where Josie Morehouse +was substituting second reader for the Wilson girl, who was sick. +She was standing in the window as we passed. Eddie took off his +cap and waved to her, and she returned the wave as well as she +could without having the children see her. That would never have +done, seeing that she was the teacher, and substituting at that. +But when we turned the corner we noticed that she was still +standing at the window and leaning out just a bit, even at the risk +of being indiscreet. + +When the 10:15 pulled out Eddie stood on the bottom step, with +his cap off, looking I can't tell you how boyish, and straight, and +clean, and handsome, with his lips parted, and his eyes very +bright. The hairy-chested recruiting officer stood just beside +him, and suffered by contrast. There was a bedlam of good-byes, +and last messages, and good-natured badinage, but Eddie's mother's +eyes never left his face until the train disappeared around the +curve in the track. + +Well, they got a new boy at Kunz's--a sandy-haired youth, with +pimples, and no knack at mixing, and we got out of the habit of +dropping in there, although those fall months were unusually warm. + +It wasn't long before we began to get postcards--pictures of +the naval training station, and the gymnasium, and of model camps +and of drills, and of Eddie in his uniform. His mother insisted on +calling it his sailor suit, as though he were a little boy. One +day Josie Morehouse came over to Mrs. Houghton's with a group +picture in her hand. She handed it to Eddie's mother without +comment. Mrs. Houghton looked at it eagerly, her eye selecting her +own boy from the group as unerringly as a mother bird finds her +nest in the forest. + +"Oh, Eddie's better looking than that!" she cried, with a +tremulous little laugh. "How funny those pants make them look, +don't they? And his mouth isn't that way, at all. Eddie always +had the sweetest mouth, from the time he was a baby. Let's see +some of these other boys. Why--why----" + +Then she fell silent, scanning those other faces. Presently +Josie bent over her and looked too, and the brows of both women +knitted in perplexity. They looked for a long, long minute, and +the longer they looked the more noticeable became the cluster of +fine little wrinkles that had begun to form about Mrs. Houghton's +eyes. + +When finally they looked up it was to gaze at one another +questioningly. + +"Those other boys," faltered Eddie's mother, "they--they don't +look like Eddie, do they? I mean----" + +"No, they don't," agreed Josie. "They look older, and they +have such queer-looking eyes, and jaws, and foreheads. But then," +she finished, with mock cheerfulness, "you can never tell in those +silly kodak pictures." + +Eddie's mother studied the card again, and sighed gently. "I +hope," she said, "that Eddie won't get into bad company." + +After that our postal cards ceased. I wish that there was +some way of telling this story so that the end wouldn't come in the +middle. But there is none. In our town we know the news before +the paper comes out, and we only read it to verify what we have +heard. So that long before the paper came out in the middle of the +afternoon we had been horrified by the news of Eddie Houghton's +desertion and suicide. We stopped one another on Main Street to +talk about it, and recall how boyish and handsome he had looked in +his white duck coat, and on that last day just as the 10:I5 pulled +out. "It don't seem hardly possible, does it?" we demanded of each +other. + +But when Eddie's mother brought out the letters that had come +after our postal cards had ceased, we understood. And when they +brought him home, and we saw him for the last time, all those of us +who had gone to school with him, and to dances, and sleigh rides, +and hayrack parties, and picnics, and when we saw the look on his +face--the look of one who, walking in a sunny path has stumbled +upon something horrible and unclean--we forgave him his neglect of +us, we forgave him desertion, forgave him the taking of his own +life, forgave him the look that he had brought into his mother's +eyes. + +There had never been anything extraordinary about Eddie +Houghton. He had had his faults and virtues, and good and bad +sides just like other boys of his age. He--oh, I am using too many +words, when one slang phrase will express it. Eddie had been just +a nice young kid. I think the worst thing he had ever said was +"Damn!" perhaps. If he had sworn, it was with clean oaths, +calculated to relieve the mind and feelings. + +But the men that he shipped with during that year or more--I +am sure that he had never dreamed that such men were. He had never +stood on the curbing outside a recruiting office on South State +Street, in the old levee district, and watched that tragic panorama +move by--those nightmare faces, drink-marred, vice-scarred, ruined. + +I know that he had never seen such faces in all his clean, +hard-working young boy's life, spent in our prosperous little +country town. I am certain that he had never heard such words as +came from the lips of his fellow seamen--great mouth-filling, +soul-searing words--words unclean, nauseating, unspeakable, and yet +spoken. + +I don't say that Eddie Houghton had not taken his drink now +and then. There were certain dark rumors in our town to the effect +that favored ones who dropped into Kunz's more often than seemed +needful were privileged to have a thimbleful of something choice in +the prescription room, back of the partition at the rear of the +drug store. But that was the most devilish thing that Eddie had +ever done. + +I don't say that all crews are like that one. Perhaps he was +unfortunate in falling in with that one. But it was an Eastern +trip, and every port was a Port Said. Eddie Houghton's thoughts +were not these men's thoughts; his actions were not their actions, +his practices were not their practices. To Eddie Houghton, a +Chinese woman in a sampan on the water front at Shanghai was +something picturesque; something about which to write home to his +mother and to Josie. To those other men she was possible prey. + +Those other men saw that he was different, and they pestered +him. They ill-treated him when they could, and made his life a +hellish thing. Men do those things, and people do not speak of it. + +I don't know all the things that he suffered. But in his mind, day +by day, grew the great, overwhelming desire to get away from it +all--from this horrible life that was such a dreadful mistake. I +think that during the long night watches his mind was filled with +thoughts of our decent little town--of his mother's kitchen, with +its Wednesday and Saturday scent of new-made bread--of the shady +front porch, with its purple clematis--of the smooth front yard +which it was his Saturday duty to mow that it might be trim and +sightly for Sunday--of the boys and girls who used to drop in at +the drug store--those clear-eyed, innocently coquettish, giggling, +blushing girls in their middy blouses and white skirts, their +slender arms and throats browned from tennis and boating, their +eyes smiling into his as they sat perched at the fountain after a +hot set of tennis--those slim, clean young boys, sun-browned, +laughing, their talk all of swimming, and boating, and tennis, and +girls. + +He did not realize that it was desertion--that thought that +grew and grew in his mind. In it there was nothing of +faithlessness to his country. He was only trying to be true to +himself, and to the things that his mother had taught him. He only +knew that he was deadly sick of these sights of disease, and vice. +He only knew that he wanted to get away--back to his own decent +life with the decent people to whom he belonged. And he went. He +went, as a child runs home when it had tripped and fallen in the +mud, not dreaming of wrong-doing or punishment. + +The first few hundred miles on the train were a dream. But +finally Eddie found himself talking to a man--a big, lean, +blue-eyed western man, who regarded Eddie with kindly, puzzled +eyes. Eddie found himself telling his story in a disjointed, +breathless sort of way. When he had finished the man uncrossed his +long lean legs, took his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up. There +was something of horror in his eyes as he sat, looking at Eddie. + +"Why, kid," he said, at last. "You're deserting! You'll get +the pen, don't you know that, if they catch you? Where you going?" + +"Going!" repeated Eddie. "Going! Why, I'm going home, of +course." + +"Then I don't see what you're gaining," said the man, "because +they'll sure get you there." + +Eddie sat staring at the man for a dreadful minute. In that +minute the last of his glorious youth, and ambition, and zest of +life departed from him. + +He got off the train at the next town, and the western man +offered him some money, which Eddie declined with all his old-time +sweetness of manner. It was rather a large town, with a great many +busy people in it. Eddie went to a cheap hotel, and took a room, +and sat on the edge of the thin little bed and stared at the car- +pet. It was a dusty red carpet. In front of the bureau many feet +had worn a hole, so that the bare boards showed through, with a +tuft of ragged red fringe edging them. Eddie Houghton sat and +stared at the worn place with a curiously blank look on his face. +He sat and stared and saw many things. He saw his mother, for one +thing, sitting on the porch with a gingham apron over her light +dress, waiting for him to come home to supper; he saw his own +room--a typical boy's room, with camera pictures and blue prints +stuck in the sides of the dresser mirror, and the boxing gloves on +the wall, and his tennis racquet with one string broken (he had +always meant to have that racquet re-strung) and his track shoes, +relics of high school days, flung in one corner, and his +gay-colored school pennants draped to form a fresco, and the cush- +ion that Josie Morenouse had made for him two years ago, at +Christmas time, and the dainty white bedspread that he, fussed +about because he said it was too sissy for a boy's room--oh, I +can't tell you what he saw as he sat and stared at that worn place +in the carpet. But pretty soon it began to grow dark, and at last +he rose, keeping his fascinated eyes still on the bare spot, walked +to the door, opened it, and backed out queerly, still keeping his +eyes on the spot. + +He was back again in fifteen minutes, with a bottle in his +hand. He should have known better than to choose carbolic, being +a druggist, but all men are a little mad at such times. He lay +down at the edge of the thin little bed that was little more than +a pallet, and he turned his face toward the bare spot that could +just be seen in the gathering gloom. And when he raised the bottle +to his lips the old-time sweetness of his smile illumined his face. + +Where the car turns at Eighteenth Street there is a big, +glaring billboard poster, showing a group of stalwart young men in +white ducks lolling on shores, of tropical splendor, with palms +waving overhead, and a glimpse of blue sea in the distance. The +wording beneath it runs something like this: + +"Young men wanted. An unusual opportunity for travel, +education and advancement. Good pay. No expenses." + +When I see that sign I think of Eddie Houghton back home. And +when I think of Eddie Houghton I see red. + + + + + +The end of the Project Gutenberg etext of "Buttered Side Down" + + + diff --git a/old/bsdwn10.zip b/old/bsdwn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a948e18 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/bsdwn10.zip |