"But it's mighty hard on women.I used to think different, before I had bad luck and got down to tending this lunch wagon.
But now I understand about a lot of things.It's all very well for comfortable people to talk about what a man or a woman ought to do and oughtn't to do.But let 'em be slammed up against it.They'd sing a different song--wouldn't they?""Quite different," said Susan.
The man waved a griddle spoon."I tell you, we do what we've got to do.Yes--the thieves and--and--all of us.Some's used for foundations and some for roofing and some for inside fancy work and some for outside wall.And some's used for the rubbish heap.But all's used.They do what they've got to do.
I was a great hand at worrying what I was going to be used for.
But I don't bother about it any more." He began to pour the griddle cake dough."I think I'll get there, though," said he doggedly, as if he expected to be derided for vanity.
"You will," said Susan.
"I'm twenty-nine.But I've been being got ready for something.
They don't chip away at a stone as they have at me without intending to make some use of it.""No, indeed," said the girl, hope and faith welling up in her own heart.
"And what's more, I've stood the chipping.I ain't become rubbish; I'm still a good stone.That's promising, ain't it?""It's a sure sign," declared Susan.Sure for herself, no less than for him.
The restaurant man took from under the counter several well-worn schoolbooks.He held them up, looked at Susan and winked."Good business--eh?"She laughed and nodded.He put the books back under the counter, finished the cakes and served them.As he gave her more butter he said:
"It ain't the best butter--not by a long shot.But it's good--as good as you get on the average farm--or better.Did you ever eat the best butter?""I don't know.I've had some that was very good.""Eighty cents a pound?"
"Mercy, no," exclaimed Susan.
"Awful price, isn't it? But worth the money--yes, sir! Some time when you've got a little change to spare, go get half a pound at one of the swell groceries or dairies.And the best milk, too.Twelve cents a quart.Wait till I get money.I'll show 'em how to live.I was born in a tenement.Never had nothing.Rags to wear, and food one notch above a garbage barrel.""I know," said Susan.
"But even as a boy I wanted the high-class things.It's wanting the best that makes a man push his way up."Another customer came--a keeper of a butcher shop, on his way to market.Susan finished the cakes, paid the forty cents and prepared to depart."I'm looking for a hotel," said she to the restaurant man, "one where they'll take me in at this time, but one that's safe not a dive.""Right across the square there's a Salvation Army shelter--very good--clean.I Don't know of any other place for a lady.""There's a hotel on the next corner," put in the butcher, suspending the violent smacking and sipping which attended his taking rolls and coffee."It ain't neither the one thing nor the other.It's clean and cheap, and they'll let you behave if you want to.""That's all I ask," said the girl."Thank you." And she departed, after an exchange of friendly glances with the restaurant man."I feel lots better," said she.
"It was a good breakfast," replied he.
"That was only part.Good luck!"
"Same to you, lady.Call again.Try my chops."At the corner the butcher had indicated Susan found the usual Raines Law hotel, adjunct to a saloon and open to all comers, however "transient." But she took the butcher's word for it, engaged a dollar-and-a-half room from the half-asleep clerk, was shown to it by a colored bellboy who did not bother to wake up.It was a nice little room with barely space enough for a bed, a bureau, a stationary washstand, a chair and a small radiator.As she undressed by the light of a sad gray dawn, she examined her dress to see how far it needed repair and how far it might be repaired.She had worn away from Forty-third Street her cheapest dress because it happened to be of an inconspicuous blue.It was one of those suits that look fairly well at a glance on the wax figure in the department store window, that lose their bloom as quickly as a country bride, and at the fourth or fifth wearing begin to make frank and sweeping confession of the cheapness of every bit of the material and labor that went into them.These suits are typical of all that poverty compels upon the poor, all that they in their ignorance and inexperience of values accept without complaint, fancying they are getting money's worth and never dreaming they are more extravagant than the most prodigal of the rich.However, as their poverty gives them no choice, their ignorance saves them from futilities of angry discontent.
