Georgia and Jim Connor parted at the cemetery gate after the burial of
their son. They have not, since then, seen each other.
Exclusive of her debt to Stevens, Georgia owed more than two hundred
dollars, nearly half of which was for the funeral. Mrs. Talbot had
ordered eight carriages.
Big Al behaved very well, turning in everything beyond carfare and
lunch money for several weeks. Then he relaxed to the extent of five
bright neckties and a pair of pointed patent leathers. But on the
whole he was a very good boy, and Georgia told him so.
Her own wardrobe was in no condition for effective job-hunting. "Old
faithful," the tan suit, once the pride of her heart and the queen of
her closet, had dated beyond hope. Time had robbed the tan, not so
much of substance as of essence, of smartness and caste.
The models of Paris hadn't worn a six yard pleated skirt for three
years. So Georgia couldn't either, without proclaiming to her kind
that she was either green or broke.
As for the blue serge, that was out of the question too, because it was
simply worn out. She bought a black broadcloth coat and skirt that
fitted wonderfully, as if they had been made for her, and a half dozen
ruffled shirt waists. To these she added a severe black toque and low
laced shoes. The total outlay ran to eighty-five dollars, but she
considered it essentially a business investment, as no doubt it was.
She was pale, and her face had grown thin, which made her big eyes seem
bigger. Her heavy black hair worn low on her forehead accentuated her
pallor. She was what is frequently termed "interesting looking." At
all events many people on the street were interested enough to turn and
look again.
She clung to the idea of an office of her own some day, but because of
the impracticability of starting business with a capital of five
hundred dollars less than nothing, concluded to begin as assistant to
some already established stenographer. Thus, she could learn the game,
make acquaintances, get a following. Then when it was time to take the
plunge, it would be simple enough to circularize this trade and switch
at least part of it over to herself from her former employer.
She went up and down in many elevators and through many ground-glass
doors in her hunt for work. One prosperous-looking, buxom, extreme
blonde of thirty-eight, dressed a coquettish twenty-five, paid her a
compliment.
"Listen," she said in a stage whisper, motioning to Georgia with a
stubby forefinger to bend her head nearer, "listen. I wouldn't hire
you for a dollar a week." She laughed merrily. "You're too much of a
doll-baby yourself."
Georgia noted that the blonde lady's two assistants, hammering away in
the dark inside corners of the room, were without menace, sallow and
flat-chested.
In a small suite in the newest, highest-rented building in town, she
found three tall, thin young men, apparently brothers. They were all
very busy, writing by touch, their eyes fixed steadily on their notes.
She spoke to the nearest, but his flying fingers did not even pause for
her. "No women," he replied succinctly.
Many of the public stenographers had no employes; few more than one.
Georgia found several places where they had just hired a girl.
Apparently it was nowhere near so easy to find a place where they had
just fired one. It was getting discouraging.
But her luck turned at the sign of L. Frankland, room 1241, the Sixth
National Building. 1241 had a single narrow window which gave upon
eight hundred others in the tall rectangular court. The room was not
strategically desirable because there was another stenographic office
between it and the elevator bank. Georgia felt sure she had seen L.
Frankland before, but couldn't just place her.
"Do you need help? I am an expert stenographer." That was her formula.
"Yes, I do," came the wholly surprising answer. Georgia promptly sat
down.
"But," continued L. Frankland, "I cannot afford to pay for it."