Roast Beef, Medium

. She had to climb over the feet of a fat man in brown and a lean man in black, to do it. Long practise had made her perfect in the art. She knew that the

ls. She gazed stolidly out of the window, crossed one leg over the other, remembered that her snug suit-skirt wasn't built for that attitude, uncrossed them again, and caught the delighted and understanding eye of

e-the tall, lank, funereal affair in black-I suppose his line would be sheet music, or maybe phonographs. Or perhaps he's a lyceum bur

Featherloom Skirt Company Emma McChesney had

d into the hotel before she had had time to straighten her hat after the wheels had bumped up again

guidly read her signature upside down, too

the lady up

ction of the stairway toward which the boy

eeve, resting on the marble, while her right forefinger, trimly gloved, tapped an imperative little tattoo. (Perhaps you think that last descriptive sentence

stake, haven't yo

his eyes from their loving contemplati

the scrubbing at 5 A.M.? And the boiler room gets in its best bumps for nineteen, and the patent ventilators work just next door, and there's a pet rat that makes his headquarters in the wall between eighteen and nineteen, and the housekeeper whose room is acros

esney, and Emma McChesney coo

ur guests as comfortable as possible on all

e, either. Also I don't get chummy with the housekeeper and the dining-room girls half an hour after I move in. Most women drummers are

chill eye. He turned and extracted another key with its jan

nd lowered his voice discreetly. "Say, girlie

r use it. Bad for the complexion. Thanks just

reat litter of pails, and mops, and brooms, and dam

g," explained the bel

ay over a little heap of du

a troubled, yearning light into her eyes. It lingered there after the boy had u

ron bed-tan wall-paper-pine table-pine dresser-pine chair-red carpet-stuffy smell-fly buzzin

It was followed by powder, chamois, brush, comb, tooth-brush. Emma McChesney dug four fingers into the cold cream jar, slapped the stuff on her face, rubbe

out for a music house. Maybe his line is skirts, t

n honor of spring; grand opening at the new five-and-ten-cent store, with women streaming in and streaming out again, each with a souvenir pink carnation pinned to her coat; every one carrying bundles and yellow paper bags that might contain bananas o

direction of the Novelty Cloak and Suit Store. She was aware of a vague, strang

e side-splitting little business deal scenes. But there can be paid no finer compliment to Emma McChesney's saleswomanship than to state th

was l

ma's trim comeliness, "but seeing you're a lady, why, it'll be on me

mma McChesney replie

ly that the women of our town do not dress well, because they do. But there was something about her-a flirt of chiffon at the throat, or he

parsley. Salad things and new vegetables glowed behind the grocers' plate-glass. There were the tender green of lettuces, the coral of tomatoes, the brown-green of stout asparagus stalks, bins of spring peas and beans, and carrots, and bunches of greens for soup. There came over the businesslike soul of Emma McChesney a wild longing to go in and select a ten

went up to her stuffy room, and, without removing hat or coat, seated hers

enough you begin to see things. Emma McChesney, who pulled down somethin

, her sleeves rolled up, her hair somewhat wild, and one lock powdered with white where she had pushed it back with a floury hand. Her cheeks were surprisingly pink, and her eyes were very bright, and she was scraping a baking board and rolling-pin, and trimming the edges of pie tins, and turning with a whirl to open the oven door, stooping to dip up spoonfuls of gravy only to pour the rich bro

swatted it with a hand that was not quite quick enough, spoil

ver to the dresser. Then she pulled down her

ame a smell of lardy things from the kitch

," remarked Emma to the girl who filled her glass w

, starched skirt, "we have ham'n-aigs,

ted Emma hopelessly, "

moking and talking. There was a rattle of dice from the cigar counter, and a burst of laughter from the men gathered about it. It all looked very bright, and cheery, and so

jungle-the trackless wastes of the desert-the solitude of the forest-the limitless stretch of the storm-tossed ocean; they are cozy and snug when compared to the utter and soul-searing dreariness of a small to

as he played he squinted up through the smoke. He was playing Mendelssohn's Spring Song. Not as you have heard it played by sweet young things; not as you have heard it rendered by the

ind and before her, as is strangely often the case when we are listening to music. She stared ahead with eyes that were very wide open and bright. Something in the attitude of the man sitting hunched there over the piano keys, and something in the beauty and pathos of the m

; not at all the sort of hands one would expect to see attached to the wrists of a fat man. They were slim, nervous, sensitive hands, pink-tipped, tapering

sat up and dried her eyes. A sa

is forehead and chin and neck w

that, then I don't want to hear him. You've upset me for the rest of th

in, nervous hands in front

ed it. Why? Because the public won't take a fat man seriously. When he sits down at the piano they begin to howl for Italian rag. Why, I'd rather play the piano in a five-cent moving picture house than do what I'm doing now. But the old man wanted his son to be a business man, not a crazy, piano-pla

inute? I want to clean house. I want to wind a towel around my head, and pin up my skirt, and slosh around with a pail of hot, soapy w

nd do it," sai

oman, and I know it, but I'm not big enough to quit. It's different with a man on the road. He can spend his evenings taking in two or three nickel shows, or he can stand on the drug-store corner and watch the p

he fat man, inte

I go to church, that's what I do. And I get green with envy watching the other women there getting nervous about 11:45 or so, when the minister is still in knee-deep, and I know they're wondering if Lizzie has basted the chicken often enough, and if she has put the celery in cold water, and the ice-cream is packed in burlap in the cellar, and if she has forgotten to mix in a tablespoon of flour to make it smooth. You can tell by the look on their faces that there's company for dinner. And you know that after dinner they'll sit aroun

e fist down on the pi

re a born housekeeper. You don't belong on the road any more than I do. It's now or never. And it's going to be now with me. Wh

bbed Emma McChesne

rupted the fat man,

T. A. Buck's Featherloo

me that you're the fellow who sold that bill to Blum, of the

Are

Strauss's Sans-silk Petticoat, warranted not to crack, rip

ned her collar and jabot

oat contains silk. I know that stuff. It looms up big in the window displays, but it's got a filler of glucose, or starch or mucilage or s

morrow, and there's Nussbaum, of the Paris E

rked Emma McChesney, the l

he fat man, "that you were goin

" sai

er, sweetly. "You aren't going back on that. The

think I'll go up and get some sleep now.

tle something moist? Or we could have

ma McChesney, somewhat crossly. "Say, what do I look like, any

ust thought it would bind our bargain. I hope you'

eplied Emma McChesney

own and get a smo

tout. Emma watched him until he disappeared around a bend in the

mouth, was cautioning the clerk, and emp

g. "Not a minute later. I've got to get out of here o

bell tinkled at the desk. Th

e to-night for DeKalb. To-morrow morning. Seven thirty-fiv