No, bumptious reader, this story is not a continuation of the Elsie
series. But if your Elsie had lived over here in our big city there
might have been a chapter in her books not very different from this.
Especially for the vagrant feet of youth are the roads of Manhattan
beset “with pitfall and with gin.” But the civic guardians of the young
have made themselves acquainted with the snares of the wicked, and most
of the dangerous paths are patrolled by their agents, who seek to turn
straying ones away from the peril that menaces them. And this will tell
you how they guided my Elsie safely through all peril to the goal that
she was seeking.
Elsie’s father had been a cutter for Fox & Otter, cloaks and furs, on
lower Broadway. He was an old man, with a slow and limping gait, so a
pot-hunter of a newly licensed chauffeur ran him down one day when
livelier game was scarce. They took the old man home, where he lay on
his bed for a year and then died, leaving $2.50 in cash and a letter
from Mr. Otter offering to do anything he could to help his faithful
old employee. The old cutter regarded this letter as a valuable legacy
to his daughter, and he put it into her hands with pride as the shears
of the dread Cleaner and Repairer snipped off his thread of life.
That was the landlord’s cue; and forth he came and did his part in the
great eviction scene. There was no snowstorm ready for Elsie to steal
out into, drawing her little red woollen shawl about her shoulders, but
she went out, regardless of the unities. And as for the red shawl—back
to Blaney with it! Elsie’s fall tan coat was cheap, but it had the
style and fit of the best at Fox & Otter’s. And her lucky stars had
given her good looks, and eyes as blue and innocent as the new shade of
note paper, and she had $1 left of the $2.50. And the letter from Mr.
Otter. Keep your eye on the letter from Mr. Otter. That is the clue. I
desire that everything be made plain as we go. Detective stories are so
plentiful now that they do not sell.
And so we find Elsie, thus equipped, starting out in the world to seek
her fortune. One trouble about the letter from Mr. Otter was that it
did not bear the new address of the firm, which had moved about a month
before. But Elsie thought she could find it. She had heard that
policemen, when politely addressed, or thumbscrewed by an investigation
committee, will give up information and addresses. So she boarded a
downtown car at One Hundred and Seventy-seventh street and rode south
to Forty-second, which she thought must surely be the end of the
island. There she stood against the wall undecided, for the city’s roar
and dash was new to her. Up where she had lived was rural New York, so
far out that the milkmen awaken you in the morning by the squeaking of
pumps instead of the rattling of cans.
A kind-faced, sunburned young man in a soft-brimmed hat went past Elsie
into the Grand Central Depot. That was Hank Ross, of the Sunflower
Ranch, in Idaho, on his way home from a visit to the East. Hank’s heart
was heavy, for the Sunflower Ranch was a lonesome place, lacking the
presence of a woman. He had hoped to find one during his visit who
would congenially share his prosperity and home, but the girls of
Gotham had not pleased his fancy. But, as he passed in, he noted, with
a jumping of his pulses, the sweet, ingenuous face of Elsie and her
pose of doubt and loneliness. With true and honest Western impulse he
said to himself that here was his mate. He could love her, he knew; and
he would surround her with so much comfort, and cherish her so
carefully that she would be happy, and make two sunflowers grow on the
ranch where there grew but one before.
Hank turned and went back to her. Backed by his never before questioned
honesty of purpose, he approached the girl and removed his soft-brimmed
hat. Elsie had but time to sum up his handsome frank face with one shy
look of modest admiration when a burly cop hurled himself upon the
ranchman, seized him by the collar and backed him against the wall. Two
blocks away a burglar was coming out of an apartment-house with a bag
of silverware on his shoulder; but that is neither here nor there.
“Carry on yez mashin’ tricks right before me eyes, will yez?” shouted
the cop. “I’ll teach yez to speak to ladies on me beat that ye’re not
acquainted with. Come along.”
Elsie turned away with a sigh as the ranchman was dragged away. She had
liked the effect of his light blue eyes against his tanned complexion.
She walked southward, thinking herself already in the district where
her father used to work, and hoping to find some one who could direct
her to the firm of Fox & Otter.
But did she want to find Mr. Otter? She had inherited much of the old
cutter’s independence. How much better it would be if she could find
work and support herself without calling on him for aid!
Elsie saw a sign “Employment Agency” and went in. Many girls were
sitting against the wall in chairs. Several well-dressed ladies were
looking them over. One white-haired, kind-faced old lady in rustling
black silk hurried up to Elsie.
“My dear,” she said in a sweet, gentle voice, “are you looking for a
position? I like your face and appearance so much. I want a young woman
who will be half maid and half companion to me. You will have a good
home and I will pay you $30 a month.”
Before Elsie could stammer forth her gratified acceptance, a young
woman with gold glasses on her bony nose and her hands in her jacket
pockets seized her arm and drew her aside.
“I am Miss Ticklebaum,” said she, “of the Association for the
Prevention of Jobs Being Put Up on Working Girls Looking for Jobs. We
prevented forty-seven girls from securing positions last week. I am
here to protect you. Beware of any one who offers you a job. How do you
know that this woman does not want to make you work as a breaker-boy in
a coal mine or murder you to get your teeth? If you accept work of any
kind without permission of our association you will be arrested by one
of our agents.”
“But what am I to do?” asked Elsie. “I have no home or money. I must do
something. Why am I not allowed to accept this kind lady’s offer?”
“I do not know,” said Miss Ticklebaum. “That is the affair of our
Committee on the Abolishment of Employers. It is my duty simply to see
that you do not get work. You will give me your name and address and
report to our secretary every Thursday. We have 600 girls on the
waiting list who will in time be allowed to accept positions as
vacancies occur on our roll of Qualified Employers, which now comprises
twenty-seven names. There is prayer, music and lemonade in our chapel
the third Sunday of every month.”
Elsie hurried away after thanking Miss Ticklebaum for her timely
warning and advice. After all, it seemed that she must try to find Mr.
Otter.
But after walking a few blocks she saw a sign, “Cashier wanted,” in the
window of a confectionery store. In she went and applied for the place,
after casting a quick glance over her shoulder to assure herself that
the job-preventer was not on her trail.
The proprietor of the confectionery was a benevolent old man with a
peppermint flavor, who decided, after questioning Elsie pretty closely,
that she was the very girl he wanted. Her services were needed at once,
so Elsie, with a thankful heart, drew off her tan coat and prepared to
mount the cashier’s stool.
But before she could do so a gaunt lady wearing steel spectacles and
black mittens stood before her, with a long finger pointing, and
exclaimed: “Young woman, hesitate!”
Elsie hesitated.
“Do you know,” said the black-and-steel lady, “that in accepting this
position you may this day cause the loss of a hundred lives in
agonizing physical torture and the sending as many souls to perdition?”
“Why, no,” said Elsie, in frightened tones. “How could I do that?”
“Rum,” said the lady—“the demon rum. Do you know why so many lives are
lost when a theatre catches fire? Brandy balls. The demon rum lurking
in brandy balls. Our society women while in theatres sit grossly
intoxicated from eating these candies filled with brandy. When the fire
fiend sweeps down upon them they are unable to escape. The candy stores
are the devil’s distilleries. If you assist in the distribution of
these insidious confections you assist in the destruction of the bodies
and souls of your fellow-beings, and in the filling of our jails,
asylums and almshouses. Think, girl, ere you touch the money for which
brandy balls are sold.”
“Dear me,” said Elsie, bewildered. “I didn’t know there was rum in
brandy balls. But I must live by some means. What shall I do?”
“Decline the position,” said the lady, “and come with me. I will tell
you what to do.”
After Elsie had told the confectioner that she had changed her mind
about the cashiership she put on her coat and followed the lady to the
sidewalk, where awaited an elegant victoria.
“Seek some other work,” said the black-and-steel lady, “and assist in
crushing the hydra-headed demon rum.” And she got into the victoria and
drove away.
“I guess that puts it up to Mr. Otter again,” said Elsie, ruefully,
turning down the street. “And I’m sorry, too, for I’d much rather make
my way without help.”
Near Fourteenth street Elsie saw a placard tacked on the side of a
doorway that read: “Fifty girls, neat sewers, wanted immediately on
theatrical costumes. Good pay.”
She was about to enter, when a solemn man, dressed all in black, laid
his hand on her arm.
“My dear girl,” he said, “I entreat you not to enter that dressing-room
of the devil.”
“Goodness me!” exclaimed Elsie, with some impatience. “The devil seems
to have a cinch on all the business in New York. What’s wrong about the
place?”
“It is here,” said the solemn man, “that the regalia of Satan—in other
words, the costumes worn on the stage—are manufactured. The stage is
the road to ruin and destruction. Would you imperil your soul by
lending the work of your hands to its support? Do you know, my dear
girl, what the theatre leads to? Do you know where actors and actresses
go after the curtain of the playhouse has fallen upon them for the last
time?”
“Sure,” said Elsie. “Into vaudeville. But do you think it would be
wicked for me to make a little money to live on by sewing? I must get
something to do pretty soon.”
“The flesh-pots of Egypt,” exclaimed the reverend gentleman, uplifting
his hands. “I beseech you, my child, to turn away from this place of
sin and iniquity.”
“But what will I do for a living?” asked Elsie. “I don’t care to sew
for this musical comedy, if it’s as rank as you say it is; but I’ve got
to have a job.”
“The Lord will provide,” said the solemn man. “There is a free Bible
class every Sunday afternoon in the basement of the cigar store next to
the church. Peace be with you. Amen. Farewell.”
Elsie went on her way. She was soon in the downtown district where
factories abound. On a large brick building was a gilt sign, “Posey &
Trimmer, Artificial Flowers.” Below it was hung a newly stretched
canvas bearing the words, “Five hundred girls wanted to learn trade.
Good wages from the start. Apply one flight up.”
Elsie started toward the door, near which were gathered in groups some
twenty or thirty girls. One big girl with a black straw hat tipped down
over her eyes stepped in front of her.
“Say, you’se,” said the girl, “are you’se goin’ in there after a job?”
“Yes,” said Elsie; “I must have work.”
“Now don’t do it,” said the girl. “I’m chairman of our Scab Committee.
There’s 400 of us girls locked out just because we demanded 50 cents a
week raise in wages, and ice water, and for the foreman to shave off
his mustache. You’re too nice a looking girl to be a scab. Wouldn’t you
please help us along by trying to find a job somewhere else, or would
you’se rather have your face pushed in?”
“I’ll try somewhere else,” said Elsie.
She walked aimlessly eastward on Broadway, and there her heart leaped
to see the sign, “Fox & Otter,” stretching entirely across the front of
a tall building. It was as though an unseen guide had led her to it
through the by-ways of her fruitless search for work.
She hurried into the store and sent in to Mr. Otter by a clerk her name
and the letter he had written her father. She was shown directly into
his private office.
Mr. Otter arose from his desk as Elsie entered and took both hands with
a hearty smile of welcome. He was a slightly corpulent man of nearly
middle age, a little bald, gold spectacled, polite, well dressed,
radiating.
“Well, well, and so this is Beatty’s little daughter! Your father was
one of our most efficient and valued employees. He left nothing? Well,
well. I hope we have not forgotten his faithful services. I am sure
there is a vacancy now among our models. Oh, it is easy work—nothing
easier.”
Mr. Otter struck a bell. A long-nosed clerk thrust a portion of himself
inside the door.
“Send Miss Hawkins in,” said Mr. Otter. Miss Hawkins came.
“Miss Hawkins,” said Mr. Otter, “bring for Miss Beatty to try on one of
those Russian sable coats and—let’s see—one of those latest model black
tulle hats with white tips.”
Elsie stood before the full-length mirror with pink cheeks and quick
breath. Her eyes shone like faint stars. She was beautiful. Alas! she
was beautiful.
I wish I could stop this story here. Confound it! I will. No; it’s got
to run it out. I didn’t make it up. I’m just repeating it.
I’d like to throw bouquets at the wise cop, and the lady who rescues
Girls from Jobs, and the prohibitionist who is trying to crush brandy
balls, and the sky pilot who objects to costumes for stage people
(there are others), and all the thousands of good people who are at
work protecting young people from the pitfalls of a great city; and
then wind up by pointing out how they were the means of Elsie reaching
her father’s benefactor and her kind friend and rescuer from poverty.
This would make a fine Elsie story of the old sort. I’d like to do
this; but there’s just a word or two to follow.
While Elsie was admiring herself in the mirror, Mr. Otter went to the
telephone booth and called up some number. Don’t ask me what it was.
“Oscar,” said he, “I want you to reserve the same table for me this
evening. … What? Why, the one in the Moorish room to the left of the
shrubbery. … Yes; two. … Yes, the usual brand; and the ’85
Johannisburger with the roast. If it isn’t the right temperature I’ll
break your neck. … No; not her … No, indeed … A new one—a peacherino,
Oscar, a peacherino!”
Tired and tiresome reader, I will conclude, if you please, with a
paraphrase of a few words that you will remember were written by him—by
him of Gad’s Hill, before whom, if you doff not your hat, you shall
stand with a covered pumpkin—aye, sir, a pumpkin.
Lost, Your Excellency. Lost, Associations and Societies. Lost, Right
Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Lost, Reformers and
Lawmakers, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts, but with the
reverence of money in your souls. And lost thus around us every day.