XI

I saw Chicago first through a late May rain--a mad, blowing, windy

rain. The skies were overcast and gray. There was a pall like smoke

over everything, and through the downpour, looking not fresh and clean

from the descending streams, but dingy and sullen, as if unwillingly

cleansed, the gigantic buildings shot up forbiddingly into the sky.

Such masses of humanity! I was one of a sweeping torrent of many, many

atoms. People hurried this way and that way and every way. I rubbed my

eyes, for the colossal city and this rushing, crushing mob, that pushed

and elbowed, bewildered and amazed me.

I did not know what to do when I stepped off the train and into the

great station. For a time I wandered aimlessly about the room, jostled

and pushed by a tremendous crowd of people, who seemed to be pouring in

from arriving trains. It must have been about eight in the morning.

All the seats in the waiting-room were taken, and after a while I sat

down on my suitcase, and tried to plan out just what I should do.

I had a hundred dollars, a fabulous sum, it seemed to me. With it I

presumed I could live wherever I chose, and in comparative luxury. But

that hundred dollars was not mine, and I had a passionate determination

to spend no more of it than I should actually need. I wanted to return

it intact to the man who had given it to me.

As I had lain in my berth on the train I had vowed that he should not

hear from me till I wrote to return his money. "Dirty money," he had

called it, but to me anything that was his was beautiful. I planned the

sort of letter I should write when I inclosed this money. By that time

I should have secured a remarkable position. My stories and my poems

would be bought by discerning editors, and I--ah me! the extravagant

dreams of the youthful writer! What is there he is not going to

accomplish in the world? What heights he will scale! But, then, what

comfort, what sublime compensation for all the miserable realities of

life, there is in being capable of such dreams! That alone is a divine

gift of the gods, it seems to me.

But now I was no longer dreaming impossible dreams in my berth. I was

sitting in that crowded Chicago railway station, and I was confronted

with the problem of what to do and where to go.

It would of course be necessary for me to get a room the first thing;

but I did not know just where I should look for that. I thought of

going out into the street and looking for "furnished-room" signs, and

then I thought of asking a policeman. I was debating the matter rather

stupidly, I'm afraid, for the crowds distracted me, when a woman came

up and spoke to me.

She had a plain, kind face and wore glasses. A large red badge, with

gilt letters on it, was pinned on her breast.

"Are you waiting for some one?" she asked.

"No," I answered.

"A stranger?" was her next question.

"Yes."

"Just come to Chicago?"

"Yes. I just arrived."

"Ah, you have friends or relatives here?"

I told her I did not know any one in Chicago. What was I doing here,

then, she asked me, and I replied that I expected to work. She asked at

what, and I replied:

"As a journalist."

That brought a rather surprised smile. Then she wanted to know if I had

arranged for a room somewhere, and I told her that that was just what I

was sitting there thinking about--wondering where I ought to go.

"Well, I've just got you in time, then," she said, with a pleasant

smile. "You come along with me. I'm an officer of the Young Women's

Christian Association." She showed me her badge. "We'll take care of

you there."

I went with her gladly, you may be sure. She led me out to the street

and up to a large carriage, which had Y. W. C. A. in big letters on

it. I was very fortunate.

Unlike New York's Y. W. C. A., which is in an ugly down-town street,

Chicago's is on Michigan Avenue, one of its finest streets, and is a

splendid building.

I was taken to the secretary of the association, a well-dressed young

woman with a bleak, hard face. She looked me over sternly, and the

first thing she said was:

"Where are your references?"

I took Mr. Campbell's letter of recommendation from my pocket-book, and

handed it to her:

It was as follows:

To Whom it may Concern:

The bearer of this, Miss Nora Ascough, has been on the staff of

_The Lantern_ for some time now, but unfortunately the tropical

climate of Jamaica is not suited to her constitution. In the

circumstances she has to leave a position for which her skill and

competency eminently qualify her.

As a stenographer, amanuensis, and reporter I can give her the

highest praise. She has for the entire session of the local

legislature reported the proceedings with credit to herself

and _The Lantern_, notwithstanding she was a stranger to her

surroundings, the people, and local politics. These are qualities

that can find no better recommendation. I confidently recommend

her to any one requiring a skilled amanuensis and reporter.

I was justifiably proud of that reference, which Mr. Campbell had

unexpectedly thrust upon me the day I left Jamaica. I broke down when

I read it, for I felt I did not deserve it. The secretary of the Y.

W. C. A., however, said in her unpleasant nasal voice as she turned it

over almost contemptuously in her hand:

"Oh, this won't do at all. It isn't even an American reference, and

we require a reference as to your _character_ from some minister or

doctor."

Now, on the way to the association the lady who had brought me had

told me that this place was self-supporting, that the girls must

remember they were not objects of charity; but, on the contrary,

that they paid for everything they got, the idea of the association

being to _make_ no money from the girls, but simply to pay expenses.

In that way the girls were enabled to board there at about half the

price of a boarding-house. Under these circumstances I could not but

inwardly resent the tone of this woman, and it seemed to me that these

restrictions were unjust and preposterous. Of course I was not in a

position to protest, so I turned to my friend who had brought me from

the station.

"What shall I do?" I asked her.

"Can't you get a reference from your minister, dear?" she asked

sympathetically. Why, yes, I thought I could. I'd write to Canon

Evans, our old minister in Quebec. My friend leaned over the desk and

whispered to the secretary, who appeared to be very busy, and irritated

at being disturbed.

All public institutions, I here assert, should have as their employees

only people who are courteous, pleasant, and kind. One of the greatest

hardships of poverty is to be obliged to face the autocratic martinets

who seem to guard the doorways of all such organizations. There is

something detestable and offensive in the frozen, impatient, and often

insulting manner of the women and men who occupy little positions

of authority like this, and before whom poor working-girls--and, I

suppose, men--must always go.

She looked up from her writing and snapped:

"You know our rules as well as I do, Miss Dutton."

"Well, but she says she can get a minister's reference in a few days,"

said my friend.

"Let her come here _then_," said the secretary as she blotted the page

on which she was writing. How I hated her, the cat!

"But I want to get her settled right away," protested my friend.

How I loved her, the angel!

"Speak to Mrs. Dooley about it, then," snapped the secretary.

As it happened, Mrs. Dooley was close at hand. She was the matron

or superintendent, and was a big splendid-looking woman, who moved

ponderously, like a steam-roller. She gave one look at me only and said

loudly and belligerently:

"Sure. Let her in!"

The secretary shrugged then, and took my name and address in Quebec.

Then she made out a bill, saying:

"It's five dollars in advance."

I was greatly embarrassed to be obliged to admit that my money was in

my stocking. Mrs. Dooley laughed at that, my friend looked pained, and

the secretary pierced me with an icy glare. She said:

"Nice girls don't keep their money in places like that."

It was on the tip of my tongue to retort that I was not "nice," but I

bit my tongue instead. My friend gave me the opportunity to remove my

"roll," and I really think it made some impression on these officers of

the Y. W. C. A., for the secretary said:

"If you can afford it, you can have a room to yourself for six a week."