The question seemed to me ironical and not worthy of notice.
"I have. I've got 'most five hundred dollars saved up," she went on.
"Five hundred dollars!"
The girl nodded. "Huh, that's what! I could live tony if I wanted, but I like to save my money. I makes good money, too,—twelve dollars a week,—and I don't spend it, neither."
"What do you do?" I asked, regarding the large, rough hands with something like admiration for their earning abilities.
"I'm a lady-buffer," she answered, with a touch of pride.
"A lady-buffer! What's that?" I cried, looking at the slovenly, dirt-streaked wrapper and the shabby golf-cape that had slipped from her shoulders to the cot. She regarded me with pity for my ignorance, and then delivered herself of an axiom.
"A lady-buffer is a lady what buffs." And, to render the definition still more explicit, she rolled up the sleeve of her wrapper, showed me mighty biceps, and then with her arm performed several rapid revolutions in midair.
"What do you buff?" I next ventured.