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By Root 999 0

arrived from school. She gave them milk and cookies and shooed then out to play. Then she changed her dress and put slippers or her aching feet. She was about to -lie down, when she heard a yoo-hoo, and Mrs. Gessler joined her, in a somewhat dark humor. Ike, it appeared, hadn't come home last night. He had phoned around nine, telling her of a hurry call that would prevent his arrival until next morning. It was all in his line of work, he had appeared at ten as he said he would, and yet

The extent to which Mrs. Gessler trusted Ike, or anybody was evidently very slight.

Mildred presently asked: "Lucy, can you lend me three dollars?"

"More if you want it."

"No, thanks. I've taken a job, and need some things."

"Right away?"

"In the morning."

Mrs. Gessler went out, and Mildred went back to the kitchen to make her some tea. When she came back she sat down gratefully to the smoking cup, and flipped Mildred a bill. "I didn't have three, but here's five."

"Thanks. I'll pay it back."

"What kind of a job?"

"Oh—just a job."

"I'm sorry. . . . But if it's that kind of a job, I hope you picked a five-dollar house. You're too young for the twodollar trade, and personally I wouldn't like sailors."

"I'm a waitress. In a hash-house."

"It rhymes up the same way."

"Just about."

"That's funny, though. It was none of my business, but all the time you were answering those ads, and trying to get hired on as a saleswoman, or whatever it was—I kept wondering to myself why you didn't try something like this."

"Why, Lucy?"

"Suppose you did get a job as a saleswoman? What would you get for it? No matter how they figure it up, when you're selling goods you get paid on commission, because it stands to reason if you weren't making commission they wouldn't pay you. But who's buying any goods? You'd have just stood around some store, all day long, waiting for the chance to make a living, and not making it. People eat, though, even now. You'll have something coming in. And then, I don't know. It may sound funny, but at selling, I'd say you just weren't the type. At this, though—"

All that Mrs. Boole had said, all that Miss Turner had said, all that her bowels had told her, after that trip to Beverly Hills, came sweeping over Mildred, and suddenly she dived for the bathroom. The milk, the sandwich, the tea, all came up, while moaning sobs racked her. Then Mrs. Gessler was beside her, holding her head, wiping her mouth, giving her water, leading her gently to bed. Here she collapsed in a paroxysm of hysteria, sobbing, shaking, writhing. Mrs. Gessler took her clothes off, massaged her back, patted her, told her to let it come, not to try to hold back. She relaxed, and cried until tears gushed down her face, and let Mrs. Gessler wipe them away as they came. After a long time she was quiet, but it was a glum, hopeless quiet. Then: "I can't do it, Lucy! I—just——can't—-do——it."

"Baby! Do what?"

"Wear a uniform. And take their tips. And face those awful people. They called me names. And one of them grabbed my leg. Ooh—I can feel it yet. He put his hand clear up to—"

"What do they pay you?"

"Twenty-five cents an hour."

"And tips extra?"

"Yes."

"Baby, you're nuts. Those tips will bring in a couple of dollars a day, and you'll be making—why, at least twenty dollars a week, more money than you've seen since Pierce Homes blew up. You've got to do it, for your own sake. Nobody pays any attention to that uniform stuff any more. I bet you look cute in one. And besides, people have to do what they can do—"

"Lucy, stop! I'll go mad! I'll—"

At Mrs. Gessler's look, Mildred pulled herself together, at least tried to make intelligible her violent outburst. "That's what they've been telling me, the employment people, everybody, that all I'm good for is putting on a uniform and waiting on other people, and—"

"And maybe they're right, just at the present moment. Because maybe what they're trying to tell you is exactly what I'm trying to tell you. You're in a spot.