“It’s not far,” she told him; “just up Kenmore, two blocks, and then a
block east on Argyle—but perhaps we ought to see a police officer and
report the—”
He laughed aloud.
“It’s easy to see that you haven’t been in Chicago long. The common or
garden variety of holdup wouldn’t interest a policeman; they’re too busy
with fancy robberies—there’s always plenty to go around, and one for
each cop to work on every evening, if he’s ambitious. Never call a cop
in Chicago unless you’re prepared to pay him well to do his duty.
“And, besides, I’ve no grudge against that stickup. I could present him
with a box of cigars in gratitude for what he’s done for me; if it
hadn’t been for him you would have been lost to me entirely.
“Why, you were eying me poisonously before he came in—and now—it’s a
great, and eternally queer, life!
“Isn’t there some way we could go to your home that’s lots farther than
the way you usually go?”
Janice did not quite like his glibness. She had never known any man who
talked so easily and freely in the presence of a lady. He seemed so
appallingly without diffidence; and yet, there _was_ something jolly
about it, too.
“W-e-e-l,” she hesitated, not at all sure that she ought to say it, but
tempted because of the loveliness of the night, after the long, hard,
confining day in the lunchroom, “perhaps we might walk down to Clarendon
Avenue, by the lake, and go around to Argyle that way; it’s much
farther.”
“I wish we could go by way of Gary, Indiana,” he told her smoothly.
“Still, Clarendon-by-the-Lake is something.”
It was queer, Janice thought, that he should be so utterly unconcerned
over what had nearly happened. Down home they would have talked about
the attempted holdup for years, would have dated subsequent events by
placing them at such and such a time after the holdup.
The men folks would have considered that she should be in a state of
nervous collapse for days after such an occurrence. Still, his attitude
did not displease her. City people were totally different; and, after
all, worse things happened every hour in Chicago.
When, a few minutes later, they reached the lake and Clarendon Beach, it
was so deliciously cool there that Janice yielded to his persuasion and
let him lead her out upon the stone porch of the large Municipal Bathing
Pavilion, to sit down upon one of the benches and watch the bathers at
play beneath the huge electric spotlights, mounted upon gaunt steel
supports.
“Tell me,” he began, when they had seated themselves and he had lighted
a cigarette, “how a bit of a girl like you comes to be running a
lunchroom all alone? It’s the last thing any one would expect to see you
doing. You don’t look the type at all.
“One would expect, seeing you upon the street, that if you worked at
all, it must be in a little specialty shop, or the lingerie section of
some ritzy store on Sheridan Road; or, possibly, in a beauty salon—”
It had been a long time since Janice had enjoyed a chance to confide in
any one—and there was a lovely moon. The jolly voices of the night
bathers drifted up to them. It was wonderful to be _sitting down_ in a
cool breeze, after a day upon one’s feet in a hot room.
“Well,” began Janice, a little surprised at herself for so willingly
becoming confidential, “you see, the lady who ran the lunchroom when I
applied for a position there as waitress can’t stand more than an hour
or so on her feet.
“She seldom comes to the store any more; in fact, she’s never coming
back to stay. She’s getting ready to go to California to live with her
son, who has a good position out there.
“I’m going to buy the lunchroom and run it. There’s a comfortable profit
in the little shop, and it will grow—is growing. With enough capital the
store next to it could be leased, too, and the partition knocked out,
and a fine business made of the lunchroom.
“Of course, that’s out of the question for the present; but, anyway, the
woman will sell me the store, fixtures, good will, and lease for fifteen
hundred.”
“And you’ve saved up fifteen hundred dollars?”
“Well, no, I haven’t fifteen hundred dollars; I haven’t fifty dollars to
my name. But some one is coming to town very shortly who has fifteen
hundred dollars to buy the store with for me—for us, that is—”
“Oh! A sweetheart, eh?”
“My _fiancé_. We are to be married as soon as he arrives.”
“That’s a terrible blow!” he sighed.
“Now, don’t be silly!”
“_Not_ being silly—I’m downright heartbroken.”
She turned a glance of reproof upon him, but his eyes sparkled so
merrily back at her that she withheld any further objections.
“Somewhere,” she said very softly, “maybe even among the bright voices
we hear down there upon the beach right now, there is another girl for
you.
“You are very nice, and very brave. You deserve to be made
extraordinarily happy. I hope you will find a lovely girl.”
“I have!” His implication was unmistakable, and he was serious now.
Janice rose from the bench.
“Don’t tell me you want to go _already!_” he exploded, rising hurriedly.
“Really, I must. It’s getting late, and I’ve got to be at the lunch room
early in the morning.” Making a wry face, he gave in and they started
off.
“Tell me something about this luckiest man alive, your _fiancé_,” he
begged, as they turned down Clarendon Avenue, walking north toward
Argyle.
Janice felt that she should not be so loquacious to an utter stranger;
but he had proved himself such a wonderful friend, at the risk of his
very life, and she was alone in the city, and more than a little
lonesome.
“Well, you see, we lived on adjoining farms, his father’s and mine, in
Nedry, Iowa, a little town you probably never heard of. My father
married again, after my own mother died, and his new wife didn’t take
any particular fancy to me.
“And yet, I had to stay on at the farm, working like a machine; the
lunch room work seems like play compared to it.
“Robert, my _fiancé_, came to me one day and insisted that I accept some
money he had saved up and go to the city to find a position where I
wouldn’t have to work so hard.
“I was of age then. He asked me to marry him, and I told him that I
would, whenever he wished.
“We’ve always loved each other, ever since we were kids. I had no
hesitancy in taking the money and coming on, especially when he told me
that he would arrange to follow, so soon as he conveniently could, and
that we would be married when he got here.”
“How old were you then?” put in her new friend.
“Eighteen,” replied Janice. “Why?”
“Oh—nothing. Go on. I’m very much interested in what you’re telling me.”
“I came on to Chicago. Found a position in a mail order office, which I
detested. Lived out here on the north side, in a furnished room. And
then, one day, I saw the ‘Waitress Wanted’ sign in that little
restaurant.
“The place looked so very neat and cozy. I wanted to work with real
things, like food and dishes; I was so tired of handling crisp bits of
paper, poking slips of things into files and taking them out again,
without knowing, or caring, what it was all about.
“I applied and got the job. Then the owner was taken sick. I wrote Bob
all the details. He said that he was lonesome and tired of farm life.
He’d saved up enough to buy the lunch room. He’s coming on to Chicago,
right away.”
“And you’re content to keep right on working in the restaurant, after
you’re married?”
“I’ll simply love it. It will be wonderful—knowing that it’s my own, or
at least half mine—and that the business I’m helping to build will
belong to Bob and me.”
“Do you really love him?” her companion suddenly asked, after a short
silence.
“Why, of course,” replied Janice, without a moment’s hesitation. They
were before the building which contained her room. She started up the
steps and turned to say good night.
“Good night, little princess,” he said sadly. “You haven’t seen the last
of me yet, though—and I’d like to give you something to think over, if
you don’t mind.
“I haven’t the slightest doubt but what this Arcadian hero of yours is a
worthy chap. You two were thrown together by circumstances over which
neither one of you had any control. You grew up together; you became,
probably, like brother and sister to each other.
“He has loaned you money, rescued you from intolerable circumstances. He
is now going to have your dreams come true by making it possible for you
to own the little lunch room you’ve taken such an odd fancy to—all very
nice and _logical_; but thoughts of _convenience_ and expedience do not
predicate love, my dear girl; are you _sure_ that what you feel for the
‘Bob’ person is _love_?”
Without waiting for a reply he turned, lifted his cap, and strode off.