She tried to remember how tramps who had appeared at her back door on Los Muertos had addressed her; how and with what formula certain mendicants of Bonneville had appealed to her. Then, having settled upon a phrase, she approached a whiskered gentleman with a large stomach, walking briskly in the direction of the town.
“Say, den, blease hellup a boor womun.”
The gentleman passed on.
“Perhaps he doand hear me,” she murmured.
Two well-dressed women advanced, chattering gayly.
“Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun.”
One of the women paused, murmuring to her companion, and from her purse extracted a yellow ticket which she gave to Mrs. Hooven with voluble explanations. But Mrs. Hooven was confused, she did not understand. What could the ticket mean? The women went on their way.
The next person to whom she applied was a young girl of about eighteen, very prettily dressed.
“Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun.”
In evident embarrassment, the young girl paused and searched in her little pocketbook. “I think I have—I think—I have just ten cents here somewhere,” she murmured again and again.