"Oh, make it fifteen," Harry said. "Girls always need money for ribbons and ice-cream sodas."
"That leaves fifteen for us, Harry," Levine wailed. "It's what I call a dog's life."
"Oh, cheer up." Moore pocketed the fifteen dollars. "Come on up to Sherry's for lunch.—It's on me."
Linking his arm in Levine's, he led him, still grumbling, out of the office.
Mary Ames sat down heavily in a chair and began to cry.
"If I wasn't so ugly," she said, "I'd just like to kiss those boys."
She shook the tears out of her eyes and jerked her chair up towards Yetta's desk.
"I know you think I'm a sentimental old flop—crying like this. You're always so calm. But I can't help it. You might think I'm discouraged—rushing round all week begging money, and every Saturday morning having to come in and tell the boys I've failed—that I haven't enough to pay their salaries. But it isn't discouragement that makes me cry, it's just joy! I wouldn't have the nerve to peg through week after week of it if it wasn't for being the ghost on Saturdays. It's those two boys, Levine always grumbling and Harry Moore making jokes. And—I know—sometimes they don't have enough to eat. And you ought to see the hole they sleep in!"
Her lips began to twitch again, and perfect rivers of tears ran down her cheeks.