Newspaper Page Text
STORIES BY EDNA FERBER
Vl.—The Three of Them
FOR «li*v<*n y*ars Martha Foote
head TiouHek<*ep<*r at the Senate
Hotel, Chicago, had catered, un*
Keen, nn<l miniatured, unknown, to that
great. oarelesH, ahlfttng, conglomerate
mass known nr the Travelling Public.
Wholesale hostessing wn* Martha
Footes Job. Senator* and suffragists,
aml>it«Kadora and lirat families had
found ease and comfort under Martha
Foote's regime. Her carpet* bad bent
their nap to the tread of king*, and
show glrla, nnd buyer* from Montana
Her uheet* had soothed the tired llmha
of prealdents. and prim-eimeM, and
prlma donna*. For the Senate Hotel
la more than a hostelry; it la a Chicago
Institution. The whole world la churn
ed In at Its revolving front door.
For*eleven year* Martha Foote, then,
had b#held humanity throwing Its
grimy suitcase* on her immaculate
white bedspreads; wiping Its muddy
hoots on her hath towels; scratching
Its matches on her wall paper; s< ritwl-
Ing Its pencil marks on her cream
woodwork; spilling its greasy crumbs
on her carpet; carrying away her
dresseh *carf* and pincushions. There
1* no supreme! test of character.
Kleven years of hotel hounekecperahlp
guars nr ei * a knowledge of human na
ture that Includes some thing* no liv
ing heigg ought to know about her
fellow me*. And Inevitably one of two
result* must follow'. You degenerate
Into a hitter, waspish, and fault-find
ing shrew; or you develop Into a pa
tient. tolerant, and Infinitely
stnnding woman. Martha Foote dealt
dally with Polak scrub girl*, and Irish
porters and Swedish chambermaids,
and Swiss waiters, and Halsted street
bell-boys Italian tenors fried onion*
In her Louls-Quinxe suite. College
boy* burned cigarette holes In her best
linen sheets Yet any one connected
with the Senate Hotel, from Pete, the
pastry cook, to H. Cl. Feathor«tone,
lessee-director, could vouch for Mar
tini Foote's serene unacldulutlon.
Don't gather from this that Martha
Foot© was a beaming, motherly person
who called you dearie. Neither wa*
ah© one of those managerial and mag
nlflcsnt blonde beings occasionally en
countered In hotel corridors, engaged
in addressing strident remark* to a
damp and crawling huddle of calico
that 1* doing something sloppy to the
woodwork. Perhaps the shortest cut
to Martha Foote's character Is through
Martha Foote's bedroom. (Twelfth
floor. Turn to your left. That'* It,
1246. Come in!)
In the limn yi'ftre of its growth ami
Success the Senate Hotel lmd known
the usual growing pains. Starting with
walnut amt red plush It had. In lta
adolescent e. broken out all over Into
brass bed a and hlrds'-eye maple. Thin
In turn, had vanished before mahogany
veneer and bromide Hardly had the
white ecratche* on these ruddy aur
faeea been doctored by the houae
panter when whlak! Away with that
annvbre atiiffl And In minced a whole
troupo of near-French furnishings;
cream enamel beds, cane-hacked;
spindle-legged dressing tallies before
which it was Impossible to dress; porti
on* chans with raspberry complexions.
Through all these changes Martha
Foote, In her hlg. bright twelfth floor
room, had clung to her old black wal
nut set.
The bed. to begin with, was a mas
sive. towering edifice with a headboard
that scraped the lofty celling. Head
end foot-board were fretted and carv
ed with great hloba representing grapes
and cornucopias, and tendrils, and
knob* and other bedevilments of the
cabinet-maker's craft. It had been pol
ished and rubbed until now It shone
like soft brown satin. There was a
monumental dresser too| with a liver
colored marble top. Along the wall,
near the windows, wa» a couch: a
heavy, wheeling, fat-armed couch
decked out In white ruffled cushions.
I suppose the mere statement that. In
Chicago, Illinois, Martha Foote kepi
these cushions always crispy white,
we ild make any flirtin' charm terlr. i
tlon superfluous. The corn'll made you
tb nk of a plump grandmother of to -
gone day*, a berulTled white fichu
across her ample, comfortable bosom
Then there was the writing desk; a
substantial structUle that bora no re
lation to the pindhng rose-aml-cpcum
affair* that graced the guest rooms. It
was the solid sort of desk »t which an
F.ngllsh novelist of the three-volume
school might have written a whole row
of I sulks without losing hi* dignity nr
cramping hla style Mirth# Foote
used It for making out reports and ln
•trm lion *li*m ts fin keeping counts
and for her small private correspond
•nee.
Batch was Martha Foote's room It
• modern and etc **ful hotel, who
foyer was ros. shaded brass-grillci'
jieacock-alteyed and tessellated, the
bed-slttlng-roem of hers was as who!,
lotus, and sat o >ug and i• it *
piece of home made ri «• bread on a tra
of Franch pastry and as Incongruous
It was to the orderly comfort of these
accustomed s ■ io'.:’ ,t that Mht
housekeeper of the Kenat Hotel ope
*d her eyes Ibis Tn - lav niTlie.
Opened them, and lay a moment, brldg
lug the morphnan chasm that lay be
tween last night and this more ng t
was t- SC A ! It Is had enough t
open one's ry *» at a |fl on Monday
morning, Hut to open them at 6; 'd or
Tuesday morning, after an Indigo
Idnnday. . . . The t*s'c of yeMer l.iy
lingered brackish, Ip Martha's mouth
“Oh, well. It won't be aa had aa yes
Mill lay**) I ■ ■
sured herself, ns she la' th. re Thei .
never wera two itav* like that, hand
running Not even In the hotel bust
pe*t ”
For yesterday had been what b
known a* a muddy Monday Thick
murky, and o«*y with trouble Tw
Convention* thri. bamiuigs, the lot.bv
•o fun of khaki that It tanked like a
•and-storm, a threatened strike in tl ,
laundry, a traveling man in two-tW'elv/
who had th.. grippe and thought he wa
dying, a shortage of towels (that hug
a boo of the hotel housekeeper) due t
he laundry trouble that had kept th
linen-room telephone Jangling to th
tun© of a hundred dump and Irut
cuests. And weaving in and out. am.’
above, and about and through It nil
like « neuralgic toothache that can’t b<
located, persisted the constant, nagglnr
maddersing complaints of the Chron
Kicker In six-eighteen.
Hlx-eightwen wns ri woman. She had
arrived Monday morning, early. By
Monday night every girl on the switch
board had the nervous Jump* when
they plugged In at her signal. Hhe had
- hanged her rooms, and back again.
She had quarrelled with the room
clerk. She had complained to the office
about the service, the food, the linen,
the light*, the noffee, the chambermaid
nil the bell-boys .and the color of the
furnishings in her suite. She said she
couldn't live with that color. It made
her sick. Between R:3O and 10;30 that
night, there had come & lull. Six
eighteen was doing her turn at the
Majestic.
Martha Foote knew that. Hhe knew,
too, that her name was Geisha McCoy
and she knew what that name meant,
Just ns you do. She had even laugher
and quickened and responded to Geisha
McCoy's manipulation of her audience,
Just as you have. Martha Foote knew
the value of the personal note, and St
had been her Idea that had resulted
in the rule which obliged elevator boys
chambermaids, floor clerks, doormen
and waiters If possible, to leorn the
names of Senate Hotel guests, no mat
ter how brief their stay.
"They like it," she said, to Manager
Brant. "You know that better than
I do. They’ll be flattered, and sur
prised, and tickled to death, and they'll
go back to Burlington, lowa, and toll
how well known they are at the Sen
ate."
When the suggestion was met with
the argument that no human being
could he expected to perform such!
daily feats of memory Martha Foote
battered It down with:
"That's Just where you're mistaken.
The tlrst few' days are bad. After that
It’s easier every day, until it becomes
mechanical. I remember when I tlrst
started waiting on table in my mother’s
quick lunch eating house In Sorghum.
Minnesota. Id bring ’em wheat cakes
when they’d rclered pork and beans;
but It waap’t two weeks before 1 could
take six orders, from soup to pie, with
out *o much a* forgetting the catsup.
Habit, that’s nil."
Ho she, as well as the minor hotel
employes, knew slx-elghteen as Oelshn
McCoy. Geisha McCoy, who got n
thousand a week for singing n few
songs and chatting informally with the
delighted hundreds on the other side
of the footlights. Geisha McCoy made
nothing of those same footlights. She
reached out. so to speak, and shook
hands with you across their amber
glare. Neither lovely nor alluring, this
woman. And as for her voice' An
yet for ten years or more this rather
plain person, somewhat dumpy, no
longer young, had been singing her
every-day, human song* about every
du>. human iwople. And invariably
iiiml figuratively) her audience clamb
ered up over the footlights, nnd sat In
her lap She had never resorted to
cheap music-hall tricks. She had never
Invited the gallery to Join In the chorus
She descended to no finger-snapping
Hut when she sang a song about a
waitress she was n waitress Hhe
never hesitated to twist up her hair,
ind pull down her mouth, to get an
effect. Ae didn't seem to bo tjilnklng
about herself, at all, or about her
elotties or her method, or her effort,
or anything but the audience that was
plastic to her deft und magic manipu
lation.
I'nttl very recently. Six mouths lin
wrought a subtle change in Geisha
McCoy. Hhe still sung her every-day.
human songs about sverv - day. human
people. But you failed, somehow, to
recognise them as such. They sound
ed .oiwdust stuffed. And you were
likely io hear the man behind \ on say
Yell, but you might to have heard her
live years ago. She’s about through”
Such was slx-elghteen. Martha
Finite, luxuriating In that one delicious
moment between tier 8.30 aW’skeniny
and her 8 St arising, mused ”n thes.
things Hhe thought of how. at etevei
o’clock the night before tier telephon
had rung with the sharp sing! of
trouble The voice of Irish Nellie, oi
night duty on the sixth floor, had
sounded thick-tiroguOd, sure sign of
dlsf)*es« with her.
I'm sorry Io be a-botherln' \*. Mis'
t’hnt It’s Nellie apeskln’ Irish Neillt
U! Ihe Slxl .”
What's the trouble Nellie""
"It’s that six eighteen again. She's
oiir on like mad. she's carryln’ on
something fierce. ’’
"What shout ?"
Th' th' blanket*. Mi#' Fhut.”
"Blankets? —”
Hlie says t's her wurriid*. not mlm
-he -ays they’re vile. A’tte. she says
Martha Finite'* spine had stiffened,
th this house' A’tte!"
If there iv«i one thing more than
' nether upon which Martha Nootv
prided hetsclf It was (he Senate Hotel
ed coverings Creamy, spotless
downy, they wer# her especial fad
Brocade chair* nnd pink lamps, and
sold snake-work are *ll well and good
I* • was wont to »ay, "and so are
I American Beauties In the lobby and
I white glove* on the elevator Imy a Bu !
H'» the blanket* on the beds that stam;
,i hole! first or second class.” And n< -
this from Nellie.
| 1 know how \# feet, an' alt. I eet ;
'cr, I »c» There never was a blank
m th » house.' | act. that didn’t too)
» if It cud be snrved up wit' whip"
cr-cresm,' 1 ae*. an’ et • J set to h. r
an' fu’thertnor*,' I #es •'
"Never mind. Nellie. I know. But
e never argue with guests. You know
hat rule a* well as I. The guest i
ight- always. I’ll send up the llnen
oum keys. You get fresh blankets;
tew one*. And no arguments. But I
want to sec those -those vile——”
"Listen Mis* Phut." Irish Nellie’*,
voice, until now shrill with righteous
mger. dropped a discreet octave. I
«een 'em. An they are vile 'ait ;
mlnnit! But why? Becu* tl th re
maid of hers that yeha’ ih. y- give
her a body massage, wit’ cold cream
an’ all, usin’ th’ blankets f’r coverin'
an’ smearin’ ’em right an’ lift. This
was afther they come hack from th’
theayter. Th* crust of thim people,
using the lligent blankets off’n the
bwda t’ ’’
"Good night, Nellie. And thank
you."
"Hurc, ye know I’m that upset f’r
dlstarbln’ yuh, an’ all, but "
Martha Foote cast an eye toward
the great walnut bed. "That’s all right.
Only, Nellie- —"
"YeHm'm."
"If I’m disturbed again on that wo
man’* account for anything less than
murder- —"
"Yes’m?"
"Well, there'll he one, that’s all.
Good night."
Such had been Monday’s cheerful
close. |
J X
— p p\ ll
S| Y N '
I v i
i... '
Martha Foote rat up in bed, now.
preparatory to the heoric flinging aside
of Ihe covers. “No," she a Mired her
self, “it can't t>c as bad as yesterday.."
Hhe reached round and about her pil
low, groping for the recalcitrant hair
pin that always clipped out during the
night; found it, and twisted her hair
Into a hard bathtub bun.
AA’ith a .iangle that tore through her
half-wakened senses the telephone at
her bedside shrilled Into life. Martha
Foote, hairpin In mouth, turned and
eyed It. speculatively, fearfully. It
Shrilled on In her very fare, nnd tliei
seemed something taunting and vin
dictive aliout it. line ic : ring fob
lowed by a short one; a long ring,
short, "t’s-a-an't it? i'a- i n-aii't It'
"Homethiug tells me I'm Mixing '
Martha Foote told hereof, ruefully , ana
•ochod for the blatant snarling thing
'' Y t'K ?*'
"Mrs. Foote? This I* ltesly. the
flight clerk Hay, Mrs Foote. 1 thing
mid better step down to six-eighteen
md sec ivhat’s "
"I am nixing." said Martha Foote
"What’s that - ’
"Nothing Go on Will I stop down
to six-eighteen and
"Hlie's sick, or something. Hysterics.
I'd say. As far as I could make out it
was sbmething about a no s-, or a
sound or- Anyway she can't locate
It, and her maid says if We don't sto;
■ t r-giu sway "
"i'll go down. Maybe iti the plumb
Ing. Ur the radiator. Bid you ask”
"No, nothing like thut. Hhe k
talking about a wall.”
"A what!" •
\ wail. A lend of
know. And then dull raps on the w
»beh!nd the bed,"
"Now look here. K.t Healy; I gw li
st <;SO. l.u l -ain't see a Joke liefo
ten. If you’re try tig to be funny!
’Funny! Why, say, listen. .M -
Fo te. | may be a night clerk but I’n
I'd so low .» to set you out at ha!
-Ist six to spring a thing like that it
fun. I mean It. Ho did she.*
"But a kind of moaning! Ami thet
101 l ratis!"
"Those #r# her words. A kind e
"1-efs not make a chant of t
ik ! get you 111 be down there l:
<?n minutes. Telephone her w ill you
I'gn’l you make it live’,’’
Not without sklpp’ng somethin
ill.”
HUH, It couldn't have been a sccon
COPYRIGHT. 1919, BY THE McCLURE NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE.
■
'/or ten, Includintr shoes, hair, and
ooks-anrl-eyi-H. And a fresh white
louse. It was Martha Foote’s theory
hat a hotel housekeeper, dressed for
.vork, ought to be as inconspicuous as
i steel engraving. She would have
men, too, If It hadn’t been for her eyes.
She paused a moment before the door
of six-'-bsht'-< n and took a deep breath.
At the first ra.-tat of her knuckles on
the door there had sounded a slirii;
“dome in!” But before she could turn
ih» knob the door v. Hung- open by a
klmonoed mulatto girl, her eyes all
•vhitwf. Th« Kiri began to Jabber, In-.
coheren'iy, but .darthr Foote passed
on thro rh t,. little hall to the door of
the bedroom.
Kix-elghteen was in bed. At sight of
her Martha Foot,, knew that she had
to deal with an over-wrought woman.
Her hair was pushed hack wildly' fron
her forehead. Her arms were clasped
about her knees. At the left her night-
Kown had slipped down go that on l
plump white shoulder gleamed against
the background of her st; earning hair
The room was in almost comic dis
order. It was a room irt which a strug
gle hasMaken place between its occu
pant. and that burning-eyed hag. Sleep
lessness. The hag, it was plain, har
won. A half-emptied glass of milk wa,
on the table by hi • h d. Warmed, and
sipped slowly, it had evidently failed
to soothe, A Toy of dishes littered
another table. Yesterday’s dishes, their
contents oongeab"! Books and mag
azines, their covers spread wide as if
they had been flung, sprawled where
they lay. A little heap of grey-black
cigarette stubs. The window curtain
W’mZ .
/■'* 1 j caka-t ?
i'MAtA i " l \{ f f inquired Mdiftkav
|\ Jlj'i Foote, pleexSAntlj
■Hi,’ ’
wry when- she had stood there during
feverish moment of the sleepless
-aril, her knuckles showing white.
'Listen!'* A hissing whisper from
haggard woman in the bed. "What's
*
‘\Vha’ dat!” h(t‘ath4d th«? colored
irl, alt hi»r vl#*ance gone, her every
•ok uml motion a hundred * throw
tek t© her voodoo-haunt©*! ancestors.
The three women remained rigid,
*?©mug. Krom the wall som* where
Bml the bed t ime a low, weird
tonotoaoum sound half wall, half
oaklng moan, like a banshee with a
old A clunking, then us of chAtns.
V s-s-swish Then thrw dull raps,
m!ng:y from within the very wall
Toe colored girt was trembling Her
i>s were moving, soundlessly. But
eisha Met’oy’s emotion was made of
’\fw look here.” >h,* said, desper
ately, “I don't mind a sleepless night
I’m u*ed to ’em. But usually I can drop
ff at live, for a little while. And
that's been going on- well, I don’t
Know how* long. It's driving me cra*y
Wain he, you fool, stop that hand
wringing? l tell 'on there's no such
thing a* gho* . Now >ou"*—*he turned
o M*rth. ' out * again ‘yon tell me
for God’s sake, what It that?**
-
Jr Ky-it>
And into Martha Foote’s face there
came such a look of mingled complfs
night, looking down upon the lights of
Grant Park and the sombre black void
beyond that was Hake Michigan. A
tiny satin bedroom slipper dh a chair,
'ts mate, solo up. peeping out from
under the bed. A pair of satin slippers
alone, distributed thus, would make a
nun’s cell look disreputable. Over all
this disorder the ceiling lights, the wall
lights, and the light from two rosy
’amps, beat mercilessly down; and
upon the white-faced woman in the
bed.
S’he tare.l, hollow-eyed, and Martha
Foote, in the doorway, gazed serenely
ack upon her. And Geisha McCoy’s
quick intelligence and drama-sense
responded to the picture of this calm
anil capable figure in the midst of the
everlsh, over-heated room. In that
moment the nervous pucker between
her eyes ironed out ever so little, and
something resembling a wan smile
■rept into her face. And what she said
vas:
"I wouldn’t have believed it.”
"Believed what?" inquired Martha
r, ’oote, pleasantly.
’’That there was anybody left In the
world who could look like that in a
white shirtwaist at 8:30 A. M. Is that
all your own hair?”
"Strictly.”
"Some people have all th e luck,”
sighed Geisha McCoy, and dropped list
lessly hack on her pillows. Martha
Foote came forward into the room. At
that instant the woman In the bed sat
up again, tense, every nerve strginec
in an attitude of listening. The mu
latto girl had come swiftly to the /oot
of the bed and was clutching the foot
that, Anna?”
"Bumka.”
"It’s called a dumka. It’s a song of
mourning, you see? Of grief. And of
bitterness against the invaders who
have laid her country bare.”
"Well, what’s the Idea!” demanded
Geisha McCoy. “What kind of a hotel
is this, anyway? Scrub-girls waking
people up in the middle of the night
with a Polish cabaret. If she wants to
sing her hymn of hate why does she
have to pick on me!”
“I’m sorry. You can go, Anna. No
sing, remember! Sh-sh-sh!”
Anna Czarnik nodded and made her
unwieldy escape.
Geisha McCoy waved a hand at the
mulatto maid. "CIA to your room
Blanche. I’ll ring when I need you.'
The gii’i vanished, gratefully, wlthou'
a backward glance at the disordcrl
room. Martha Foote felt herself die
missed, too. A d yet she made no mov
to go. She stood there. In the mldd
of the room, and every housekeepe
'nth of her yearned to tidy the chaos
all about her. and every sympathetic
mpulac urged her to comfort the
nerve-tortu rtot woman before her
Something of this must have shone In
her face, for Geisha McCoy's tone was
half-pettish, half-apologetic us she
spoke.
"You've no business allowing things
like that, you know. My nerve* arc all
shot to pieces, anyway. But even If
they weren’t, who could stand that kino
of torture? A woman like that ought
to lose her Job for that. One word
from me at the office and she—”
"Ixin't say it, then," Interrupted
Martha Foote, and came over to the
bed. Mechanically her fingers straight
ened the tumbled covers, removed a
jumble of magazines, flicked away the
sion and mirth as to bring a quick
flame of fury Into Geisha McCoy's
eyes.
"i,ook here, you may think It's funny
but—-"
"t don't. I don’t. Wait a minute.
Martha Foote turned and was gone. An
Instant later the weird sounds ceased.
The two women in the room looked
toward the door, expectantly. And
through it came Martha Foote, smli
mg. She turned and beckoned to some
one without. “Come on,” she said.
"Come on.” She put out a.hand, en
couragingly, and brought forward the
shrinking, cowering, timorous figure of
Anna Czarnik, scrub-woman on the
sixth floor. Her hand still on her shoul
der, Martha Foote led her to the cen
tre of the room, where she stood gaz
ing dumblj about. She was the scrub
woman you’ve seen In every hotel from
San Francisco to Seituat". A shaoc
less, moist, blue calico mass. Her shoes
turned up ludicrously at the toes, as do
the shoes of one who crawls her way
backward, crab-like, on hands and
knees. Her hands were the shrivelled
unlovely members that bespeak long
and daily immersion in dirty water.
But even had those invariable marks
of her trad been lacking, you could
not have fa,.ed to recognize her type
by the large and glittering mock-dia
mond comb ..hich failed to catch lip
her dark ..nd stringy hair in the bark
One kindly- hand on the woman’s
arm, Martha Foote; performed the in
troduction.
“This is Mrs. Anna Czarnik, late of
Poland. Widowed. Likewise childless
Also brotherless. Also many other un
comfortable things. But the life of th,
crowd in the scrub-girls’ quarters on
the top floor. Aren't you, Anna? Mrs.
Anna Czarnik, I’m sorry to say, is tin
source of the blood-curdling moan, and
the swishing, and the clanking, anrl th
ghost-raps. There is a service stair
way Just on the other side of this wal
Anna Czarnik was performing he
morning Job of scrubbing it. Th.
swishing was her wet rag. The clank
ing was her pall. The dull raps he:
scrubbing brush striking the stair .cor
ner just behind your wall.”
"You’re forgetting the wail,” Geisha'
McCoy suggested, icily.
That was Anna Czarnik singing.”
"Singing?”
Martha Foote turned and spoke a
giberish of Polish and English to the
bewildered woman at her side. Anna
(. zarnik s dull face lighted up ever so
little.
Hhe says the thing she was singing
is a Polish folk-song about death and
sorrow, .and it’s called a—what was
crumbs. “I'm sorry you wer disturb
ed. The scrubbing ca: ’t he helped, of
course, but there is a rule against un
necessary noise, and she shouldn’t have
been singing. But—well, I suppose
she s got to find relief, somehow.
Would yoi believe that woman is the
cut-up of the top floor? She’s a nat
ural comedian, and she does more for
me in the way of keeping the other
girls happy and satisfied than— ”
“What about me? Where do I come
in? - Instead of sleeping until eleven
I’m kept awake by this Polish dirge. I
go on at the Majestic at four, and a - i
at 9:43 and I’m sick, I tell you. Sick!”
She looked it. too. Suddenly she
tw'isted about and flung herself, face
downward on the pillow. "Oil. God!”
she cried, without any particular ex
pression. "Oh. God! Oh. God!”
That decided Martha* Foote.
She crossed over to the other side
of the bed, first flicking off the glaring
top lights, sat. down beside the shaken
woman on the pillows, and laid a cool,
light hand on her shoulder.
"it isn’t as bad as that. Or it won’t
be, anyway, after you’ve told me about
it.”
She waited. Ge’sha McCoy remained
as she was, face down. But she did
not openly resent the hand on her
shoulder. Ho Martha Foot, waited
And as suddenly as Six-eighteen had
flung herself prone she twisted about
and sat up. breathing quickly. Hhe
passed a hand over her eyes and push
ed back her streaming hair with an
oddly desperate little gesture. H(r lips
were parted, her eyes wide.
"They’ve got away from me” she
cried, and Martha Foote knew what
she meaeit. "I cant hold ’em any more.
I work as hard a* e”er —harder. That's
it. It seems the harder I work the
colder they get. Last week, in Indian
apolis, they couldn't have been more
Indifferent if I’d been the educational
Him that closes the show. And, oh
my God! They sit and knit!”
"Knit!” echoed Martha Foote. “But
everybody's knitting nowadays.”
"Not when I’m on. They can’t. But
they do. There were three of them ir
the third row yesterday afternoon. < Un*
of ’em w as doing a grey sock with four
shiny needles. Four! I couldn't kee
nly eyes off of them. And the sccom’
was doing a sweater, and the third
helmet. I could tell by tile shape. And
you can't be funny, can you. when
vou’re hypnotized by three stoncy
faccd female* all doubled up over a
,-unch of olive-drab? Olive-drab! I’m
cared of it. It sticks out all over thr
louse. Igist night there were two
oung kids in uniform right down In
:e first row. centre, right. I’ll bet the
dest wasn't twenty-three. There they
it looking up at me with their 1 -1-;
ices. That’s all they are. Kid* Th<
house seems t; he peppered with 'i m
You wouldn't think olive-drab could
•tick out the way It does. I can see
it farther than red. I can zee it day and
night. I i-n’t seent to *ee anything
idee. I cart’t— —’’
Her heud ennie down on her arms,
that rested on her tight-hugged knee*.
"Homebody of yours in It?” Martha
Foot* naked, quietly. Hhe watted. Then
she made a wild guess- an intuitive
guess. ’ Son?”
“How did you know?” Geisha Mc-
Coy » head came up.
T didn’t.’’
"Well, you’re right, Jhe.e aren’t
fifty people in the world, outside my
own friendi, who know I've got a
grown-up ton. It'* bad business to
have them think you’re lu'ddle-aged.
And besides, there's nothing of the
stage about Fred, lie's one of those
•quare-Jawed kid* that are J st cut
out to 'e engineer*. Third year
Boston Tech.”
"1* lie still there then?"
"There! He’* In France, that’s whe*
b* i*. mewhere--in France ,\
I’ve worked for twenty-two year* with
everything In me Ju»t *et. like sn alarm
clock, for the time when that kid won.
top off on his- own. He always hated
i take money from me. and I loved
him for it. I never went on that I
didn’t think of him. I never came off
vith a half dozen encores that I didn’t
wish he could hear it. Why, when I
flayed a college town it used to be a
hot, because I loved every fresh-faced
hov in the house, and they knew it.
And* now—and now—what’s there in
’t? What’s there in it? I can’t even
hold ’em any more. I’m through. I tell
you. I’m through!”
And waited to he disputed. Marthr
Foote did not disappoint her.
There’s .just this in it. It’s up to
you to make those three women in the
’bird row forget what they’re knitting
for, even If they don’t forget their knit
ting. Let ’em go on knitting with their
hands, hut keep their hearts off it.
That’s your job. You're lucky to have
it.”
“Lucky?”
"Yes. ma’am! You can do all the
dumka stuff in private, the way Anna
'zarnik does but it's up to you to make
them laugh twice a day for twenty
minutes."
"It’s all very well for you to talk
that cheer-o stuff. It hasn't come
home to you, I can see that.”
Martha Foote smiled. "If you don’t
mind my saying it. Miss McCoy you’re
too worn out from lack of sleep to see
nything deafly. You don’t know me,
'ut I do know you, you see. I know
hat a year ago Anna Czarnik would
: tve been the most interesting thing
i this town, for you. You'd have
■opied her clothes, and got a transla
tion of her sob song, and made her as
cal to a thousand audiences as she
was tons this, morning; tragic history,
patient animal face, comic shoes and
ill. And that's the trouble with you,
ay dear. When we begin to brood
about our own troubles we lose what
they call the human touch. And that's
•our bus’ness asset.”
Geisha McCoy was looking up at her
with a whimsical half-smile. “Look
hero. You know too much. You’re not
•eally the hotel housekeeper, are you?”
”1 am.”
"Well then, you weren’t always ’’
"A’es I was. Ho far as ' know I’m
the only hotel housekeeper in history
who cr-’* look back to the time when,
she had --ee servants of her own, and
her private -irnage. I’m no decayed
black-silk gentlewoman. No’ me. My
father drove a hack in Sorgham. Min
nesota. am. my mother took in board
er* and I helped wait on table. I mar
ried when I was twenty, mv man died
two years later, and I’ve been earning
my living eve- since.”
"Happy?”
"I must be because I don’t stop to
think about it. It’s part of my job to
'know everything that concerns the
comfort of the cuests in this hotel."
“Including hysterics in six-eighteen?"
"Including. And that reminds me.
Hp on the twelfth floor of this hotel
there's a big, old-fasiuoned bedroom.
In half an hour I can nave that room
made up \ ilh the softest linen sheets,
and the curtains pulled down, and not
a sound. That room's so restful it
would put old Insomnia himself to
sleep. Will you let me tuck you away
in it?"
Geish ' McCoy slid down among her
rumpled covers, and i.estled her head
in the lumpy, tortured pillows. “Me*
I’m going to stay right here.”
"But this room's—why, it’s as stale
as a Pullman sleeper. Let me have the
chnmberrr ' in to freshen it up while
you're gone."
"I’m used m it. I've got to have a
room m d up, io feel at home in it
Thanks just, the same.”
Martha Foote rose, "T‘m sorry. I
just thought if I could help ”
Geisha McCoy leaned forward with
‘-ne of her q f movements and caught
Martha Foote's hand in both her own.
"You have! And I don’t mean to lie
rude whin f tell you I haven’t felt so
fli tch I do-' sleeping in v, uks. Just turn
out those lights, will you? And sort of
tiptoe oul, to give the effect." Then, at
Martha Foote reached the door. “And
oli say! li’you think she'd sell me
those shots?”
Martha Foote didn’t vet her dinner
hat night until almost eight, what with
•me thing and another. Ht*ll as days
go, it wasn’t so had as Monday; she
and Irish Nellie who had come in to
urn down her bed, acreed on that. The
'"nato Hotel housekeeper was having
'n dinner in her room. Tony, th*
waiter, had just brought It on and had
set it out for her. a gleaming island of
'■'hite linen .and dome-shaped metal
"’•a. Irish Nellie, a privileged person
always waxed conversational as sho
»!ded baek tile bt. 1 cover* in a neat
triangular wedge.
’ Six-nghl >n klnda ea rned down,
1 dn t she? High totme. the d’vil. Sho
lad tis Jumpin' ylzt'ldily, I lolke t’ went
<<X me head v. d her und th’ day gitl
tii' s, ilne Some folks ain’t got no
feelin', ! dunno.”
Martha Foote unfolded her napkin
with a little tired gesture. "You cun t
always Judge, Nellie. That won; in’s
it a son who has gone to war and she
eouldn’t se,. her way clear to liiing
without h’m She * better now. 1 talk
"d to her tills evening at six. She said
she hud a fin* afternoon."
"Shure. she ain’t the only wan. An’
what do you lie bearin' from your hoy,
M’s' Phut, that's in France?”
lies well, and happy. Ills arm’*
ill healed, and he says h >'ll bo In It
"gain by tin* time ! get h’s letter.”
lib II V ill*. And
prepared to leave. Hhe east an inquisi
tive eye ov th» httlc table a* she
made •'or the d or inquisitive, but
x nd'y Her w le l h noztillz sniffed
1 familiar mill. "Well, fur th' land.
Mi* Phut! it i was housekeeper hers,
an’ cud ha\i h . ms" strawherries an*
xivutebr- nils undher glass, an’ sparrow
■ -ass an' . hlcken. an’ Ice crame. th«
vu ' ’’n, whinlver yuh lolke. I
w ih'n’t Is- u-ratin' cornbecf an' cab
• i ;>■ , 'ot me.”
"* ' ’■ » you would. Nellie,” replied
i FoOte. quietly, and spooned up
t’ n amner gravy. “Oh. yes you
would.”