GOOD REFERENCES
[Illustration: "But, please--_please_, let me explain about the
references."]
GOOD REFERENCES
BY
E. J. RATH
AUTHOR OF
"SAM," "MISTER 44," "THE MANTLE OF SILENCE," ETC.
Frontispiece by
PAUL STAHR
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I MARY DECIDES 1
CHAPTER II AUNT CAROLINE 15
CHAPTER III ENGAGED 26
CHAPTER IV "THE WEB WE WEAVE" 33
CHAPTER V SOCIAL SECRETARYING 47
CHAPTER VI IN SEARCH OF AN IDEA 56
CHAPTER VII VIA THE NIGHT COURT 68
CHAPTER VIII "MISS NORCROSS GETS THE GOODS" 81
CHAPTER IX "MISS NORCROSS" WIELDS A CLUB 93
CHAPTER X THE LEOPARD'S SPOTS 102
CHAPTER XI THE VALET IN THE HOUSE 112
CHAPTER XII SIGNOR ANTONIO VALENTINO 123
CHAPTER XIII MARY RESIGNS 133
CHAPTER XIV REFERENCES 143
CHAPTER XV TO SAIL THE OCEAN BLUE 154
CHAPTER XVI THREE ERRANDS ASHORE 165
CHAPTER XVII THE WAY OF A MAID 176
CHAPTER XVIII CASTAWAYS 187
CHAPTER XIX THE SPOILERS 199
CHAPTER XX THE HIGH COST OF JEALOUSY 212
CHAPTER XXI THE LAST BOTTLE IN LARCHMONT 224
CHAPTER XXII THE ROAD TO HOME 236
CHAPTER XXIII HOME 249
CHAPTER XXIV AUNT CAROLINE--REFEREE 262
CHAPTER XXV WILLIAM DEVELOPS A WILL 273
CHAPTER XXVI WITHOUT REFERENCES 283
GOOD REFERENCES
CHAPTER I
MARY DECIDES
There was only one man in the office of the Brain Workers' Exchange and
he was an obscurity who "kept" the books in the farthest corner of the
room. Girls of various ages and women of all ages crowded him
remorselessly out of the picture, so that when it was possible to obtain
even a glimpse of him he served merely as a memorandum of the fact that
there are, after all, two sexes. A few of the girls and women sat at
desks; they were the working staff of the Exchange. One of them was also
the owner and manager.
Outside a railing that divided the room there were a few chairs, very
few, because it was not the policy of the Exchange to maintain a
waiting-room for clients. It was a quiet and brisk clearing house, not a
loitering place nor a shop-window for the display of people who had
brains to sell by the week or the month. The clients came and went
rather rapidly; they were not encouraged to linger. Sometimes they were
sent for, and after those occasions they usually disappeared from the
"active-list" and became inconsequential incidents in the history of
the Exchange. The Exchange had pride in the fact that it made quick
turnovers of its stock; nothing remained very long on the shelves. And
in times such as these there were no bargain sales in brains.
Mary Wayne paused for a second on the threshold as her eyes swiftly
reviewed the details of the picture; then she closed the door gently
behind her, conscious of a distinct feeling of encouragement. She had
been apprehensive; she had faced an expected sense of humiliation. There
had been in her mind an idea that she was about to become one of a
clamorous crowd. But things were very much otherwise in the Brain
Workers' Exchange--gratefully so.
She walked over to a desk, where a small brass sign said "Registry,"
sensing that this must be her first port of call. A young woman who sat
at the desk glanced up, saw a stranger, reached for a form-card that lay
on top of a neatly stacked pile and dipped a pen.
"Name, please," she said.
"Mary Wayne."
"Address?"
The address was given; it was that of a boarding-house in the Eighties,
but Mary Wayne hoped that it would not be so identified in the mind of
the recording angel, if, indeed, she should prove to be such.
"Married?"
"Oh, no," hastily. It seemed an absurd question, but the answer went
down in a place left blank by the printer.
"Age?"
"Twenty-two."
"Occupation?"
"Stenographer." The answer had a faint note of defiance.
"Expert? We handle only experts, you know."
"Expert," said Mary Wayne.
There were other questions. Had she a knowledge of office management?
No. Of bookkeeping? No. Of foreign languages? She knew French; a little
Spanish. Did she understand filing systems? She thought so. Education?
There had been two years in college; necessity compelled her to give up
the remainder.
The woman behind the desk surveyed her from hat to shoes in a rapid,
impersonal glance, then wrote something in another blank space. Mary
wildly yearned to know what it was, but checked the impulse to lean
forward and see.
"Now, your references, please."
"I have no references."
There was a sudden chill in the manner of the recording angel. She
pushed the form-card away from her, so that it teetered perilously on
the edge of the desk. If it passed the brink there was nothing to save
it from the waste-basket below.
"All registrants must furnish references. Perhaps you did not observe
the sign on the wall."
Mary had not seen it, but she now looked at it, apologetically.
"I didn't know," she said. "I'm sorry. But I can explain very easily."
"We never deviate from our rule, Miss Wayne. We have our reputation to
sustain. References are absolutely essential."
"But don't you see----"
"It would only waste your time and mine. We recommend no person for
employment unless she can furnish at least two references. We even
require employers to furnish them, unless they are known to us."
The recording angel was no longer angelic. She was polite, perhaps, yet
peremptory. With a little gesture of finality, she tipped the card into
the waste-basket. Mary caught her breath, almost desperately.
References! Oh, she had heard that word before. A dozen times it had
risen to mock her, like a grinning specter.
If asked to spell it, she felt that she would write it thus:
"D-o-o-m."
"But, please--_please_, let me explain about the references."
"Sorry. It would be quite useless."
"I can assure you I'm absolutely--all right," pleaded Mary. "I'm really
a good stenographer--an expert. I'm honest, and----"
She paused in the humiliation of having to say things that ought to be
obvious to anybody.
But the woman simply shook her head.
"You must listen; oh, surely you will. I suppose I should have explained
in the beginning, but it didn't seem necessary. I didn't understand.
This is the first time I was ever in--in--an intelligence office."
The recording angel stiffened in her uncompromising desk-chair, and
Mary instantly knew she had given unpardonable offense.
"This is _not_ an intelligence office, Miss Wayne. An intelligence
office is a place for cooks, chambermaids, waitresses, laundresses,
chauffeurs, gardeners, and stable-hands. This is an exchange which deals
in brains only, plus experience and good character. It is not even an
employment agency. Good day, Miss Wayne."
Mary recoiled from the desk, numbed. She had sealed her own fate in two
blundering words. She had not meant to say "intelligence office"; it
slipped out in an evil moment of inadvertence. It was a forgotten phrase
of childhood, come down from the days when her mother employed "help,"
and now flowing from the tip of her tongue in order to accomplish
complete and unmerited disaster.
Dismay and irresolution held her motionless for a moment, outside the
inexorable railing that divided the room. It had not yet occurred to her
to walk out of the office of the Brain Workers' Exchange; she was
thralled in the inertia of an overwhelming despair.
"Good morning, Miss Norcross. Thank you for being prompt."
A woman who sat at another desk was speaking, in crisp, satisfying
tones. Mary turned mechanically to observe the person to whom the words
were addressed. She saw a girl apparently of her own age crossing the
floor with an eager, nervous step; a girl dressed with a certain plain
severity that unmistakably helped to give her an air of confidence. Mary
was easily as well dressed herself; perhaps more expensively. Yet she
felt herself suddenly lacking in every essential quality embodied in the
person who had been addressed as "Miss Norcross."
"We have an excellent opportunity for you," the woman at the desk was
saying. "That is why I sent an urgent message. A lady wishes a
competent, well-bred young woman to perform secretarial work. It is of a
social character. She will pay a good salary to the right person. We are
giving you the first opportunity because of the unusually good
references you possess."
There it was again. References! Mary's soul winced.
"The lady, Miss Marshall--here is her address--is known to us by
reputation. We have given her an outline of your qualifications. She
will wish, of course, to see your references, so take them with you. She
expects you to call at three o'clock this afternoon."
"Oh--thank you!"
There was something so fervent in the words that even Mary, dulled with
her own woes, did not fail to observe it. She was conscious of a faint
sense of surprise that such a confident and evidently competent person
as this Miss Norcross should yield to an ardent protestation of
gratitude. She had good references; unusually good ones, the woman said.
Why, therefore, be so eagerly thankful?
"It's nothing at all, if you have references," whispered Mary to her
inner self, as she walked toward the door. It was a bitter, hopeless
whisper.
Once in the outer hall, Mary Wayne paused. She had closed the door
behind which crouched that cold-blooded monster--the Brain Workers'
Exchange. Again she read the neatly lettered sign. What a mockery it
was! Brain Workers, indeed! It was merely a meeting-place for the elect,
for those who had the mystic password to the inner shrine. And she--she
had everything but the mere password.
Abruptly she brushed her hand across her eyes, then began fumbling in a
beaded bag.
"I'm going to cry," she said, half aloud. "And I _won't_!"
Yet she would and did, and she certainly was crying when the door of the
Brain Workers' Exchange opened again and closed with a joyous click
behind the young woman who had the unusually good references.
"Oh--I'm sorry," said the young woman, looking at Mary.
Mary hated herself and loathed the weakness of her tears.
"I saw you inside," continued the person named Norcross. "You've had bad
luck, of course."
It was not a question, but an assertion. Mary fought against a sob.
"N-no luck," she managed.
"Never mind. You'll have better luck very soon."
"I--I'll never have any luck. I'm doomed. I--oh, it's so silly of
me--but I haven't any references."
A hand was slipped within Mary's arm; she felt a gentle pressure of
reassurance.
"Don't let luck down you," said the lucky one. "It always changes. Mine
did; so will yours. I've just had a wonderful piece of luck and it
doesn't seem right that somebody else should be unhappy."
"But you had ref--ref--references. I heard."
"Yes, my dear; I had references. They're good things to have.
Come--cheer up. I've simply got to celebrate. Please come and have lunch
with me. Honestly, I insist."
Mary looked wonderingly at the girl with the magic key. She wiped her
eyes bravely, then shook her head.
"I'll--I'll be all right. Thank you."
"You'll be better for lunch; so will I. Please come. I want somebody to
talk to. My name is Norcross--Nell Norcross."
She was still gripping Mary's arm, with an insistence that surprised the
tearful one, for Miss Norcross did not appear like a resolute and robust
person, but rather one who was somewhat frail and worried, despite all
her jaunty assurance of manner.
"I'm Mary Wayne--but--oh, what's the use? Thank you, just the same."
"Come along," said Miss Norcross. "I know a dandy little place. It's
cheap, too. You see, I'm not very strong financially, even if I am
getting a job."
She walked Mary to the elevator and down to the street level they went.
Mary felt very weak of will, yet somehow comforted, as she suffered
herself to be marched for several blocks to an obscure little restaurant
in a basement. The strange young woman chattered all the way, but Mary
had no very clear notion of what she talked about. It was not until they
were seated on opposite sides of a table that she began to pay close
attention.
"You must always have references," Miss Norcross was saying with an
energy that was strangely in contrast with the pale, drawn cheeks and
very bright eyes. "You must find a way to get some. People are so silly
about them; they think more of references than of what you can really
do."
"But how can I ever get them?" asked Mary. "You see, I've never worked;
that is, I never worked for anybody except father. And he is dead. I'm
really a very good stenographer; I can do over one hundred and
twenty-five words a minute. But there isn't anybody who knows I can. And
there isn't a business place that will give me a chance to prove it.
I've tried; and every time they ask for references."
"My dear, if you can do one hundred and twenty-five you're a better
stenographer than I am; lots better. In your case it's only a question
of getting started. After that, you'll go like wildfire."
"But it's the references," sighed Mary. "You've got them, you see."
"Simply because I've worked before; that's all." Miss Norcross sipped
hastily from a glass of water and shook her head with a little frown of
annoyance. "I'm just a bit dizzy; it's my eyes, I think--or perhaps the
good luck. The thing for you to do is to get some references; surely
there must be somebody who can help you out. Now, when I started----"
She shook her head again. "When I started----" Another drink of water.
"It's quite easy if--my dear, I'm afraid I'm going to be ill."
She announced the fact with a gasping sigh of resignation. Mary arose
from her chair, startled, and walked around the table.
"I've--I've been afraid of it," said the lucky one of the references.
"I haven't been very strong. Worrying, I suppose. I worried about a job.
It's my head; it aches in such a funny way. Just my luck, I suppose.
I--I--oh, please don't leave me!"
"I shouldn't dream of leaving you," said Mary, stoutly. "Let me take you
home. Where do you live?"
"It's----" Miss Norcross whispered an address; Mary observed with
conscious surprise that it was on the lower East Side. "It's written on
a piece of paper--in my bag--in case you forget it--or I faint. You'll
find money there--for the check. I'm sorry. I----"
The sick girl leaned forward and rested her head on her folded arms.
"Just get me home," she muttered. "After that----"
Mary took command. She paid the check out of her own purse and sent the
waiter out into the street to hunt for a taxi. With responsibility so
suddenly thrust upon her there was no opportunity to brood upon her own
troubles or the meager state of her finances. This girl had been kindly;
she could do no less than be a Samaritan herself.
The ride in the taxi was swift and, for the most part, through streets
whose pavements had deteriorated in keeping with the neighborhood
itself. Mary sat rigid, her feet braced in front of her, with her arm
tightly clasped around the girl of the references, who sagged heavily
against her, her eyes closed, her forehead and cheeks cold and damp. The
cab stopped at what was evidently a boarding-house; Mary could tell a
boarding-house through some queer sixth sense, developed out of
cheerless experience. It was an acquired faculty in which she took no
joy or pride.
A nervous and wholly pessimistic landlady assisted in the task of
conveying Miss Norcross to her room, which was up three flights.
"I been expectin' it," observed the landlady. "It's been comin'. She
ain't been feedin' herself right. I ain't complainin', y' understand;
she's paid her bills--so far, anyhow. I hope to goodness it ain't
contagious. I got my house to think about. If it's contagious----"
"Go down and telephone for a doctor," said Mary shortly.
"It's a good thing she's got a friend. If she has to go to a
hospital----"
"Where is the telephone?"
"Oh, I'll go. I'll send for my own doctor, too. There isn't anybody
better. I'll ask him if it's contagious and----"
Mary pushed her out of the room and turned to the patient, who was lying
on the bed.
"Don't be a bit frightened," said Mary. "I don't believe you're very
sick. Keep still and I'll undress you."
She felt quite composed and wholly in command of herself; it was as if
she were doing something entirely commonplace and all planned in
advance.
"It--it isn't just being sick," said Miss Norcross weakly. "I'm not
afraid of that. It's the job--the money. I need it so. Oh, please--don't
bother. I can take off my own shoes."
"Keep still," ordered Mary. "We'll have the doctor very soon."
"Doctor!" moaned the patient. "That's more money."
"Stop talking about money. Be quiet. Would you like a drink of water?"
When Mary returned with a glass she found her patient sitting up,
staring at her with frightened eyes that were luminous with fever.
"I've got to talk about money!" she exclaimed. "Why, I haven't even five
dollars to my name."
"There, there, my dear," said Mary. "Don't let it worry you. Neither
have I."
It had cost her nearly three dollars to pay the restaurant check and the
taxi-driver, but that pang had passed. She was amazed at her own
indifference.
"But, don't you understand? I'm going to be sick--sick! And who's going
to pay for it all? I _won't_ be a charity patient; I _won't_ go to a
hospital. And my job! I've been trying so long and--and just when I get
one--such a wonderful chance--I--oh, it's going to drive me mad, I tell
you."
"Never mind; there'll be other chances. Perhaps the lady will wait.
Drink your water."
But Miss Norcross pushed the glass aside.
"Jobs never wait," she moaned. "People always have to wait for jobs.
That's what I've been doing, and now--now--oh, isn't it simply fiendish?
And my head aches so!"
"Of course, dear. But never mind. I'll see you through. Perhaps I'll get
a job myself, and----"
The sick girl gripped Mary's arm tensely.
"My job!" she whispered. "You'll take mine!"
Mary smiled rather wanly.
"I couldn't do that, of course," she said. "I haven't references--and
they're expecting you. But I'll find something else; I'm sure of it."
She was anything but sure of it; she was quite certain it would be
otherwise. But it was her duty, she felt, to make a brave front.
"No, no, no! You _must_ take mine. Oh, can't you see----"
There was a knock, followed by a doctor. He seemed to be in a hurry, yet
for all that he was quite positive about things. No, it wasn't
contagious. The landlady vanished from the threshold to spread the
joyous news down-stairs. But she was a sick girl, none the less. There
would be ten days in bed, at the very least. She needed medicine, of
course he would leave prescriptions. And there must be a special diet.
There really ought to be a nurse. And--well, he would look in again that
evening; he would decide about the nurse then.
Miss Norcross was sitting up again as the door closed behind him.
"See!" she cried. "You've just got to do it! What's going to become of
_me_--and of you? It's for three o'clock. Oh, please go! Take my
references. Take----"
She fell back on the pillow in a seizure of weakness.
Mary Wayne walked to the window and looked down into the drab street.
Would she do it? Dared she? Had she any right? And if she did---- The
sick girl was whispering for water. Mary carried it to her, raised her
head and steadied the glass at her lips.
"Oh, please! I'm frightened and worried--and----"
Mary made a decision.