"Too bad," answered the man. "She was a pretty girl. Well, that's the end of her, I guess. Got any new ones?"
"Yes, we got one in today to take her place," answered the woman. And then she added, with a laugh: "She thinks she's in a swell place and is going to have a big time. She's a beauty, though; eighteen years old and raised in a little town down state."
"All right, run her out and let me see her," broke in the man.
In the big den of vice there was no mourning. The mentioning of the dead girl's name was forbidden. The thought of death might act as a damper on the night's orgy. A day later she would not be missed. Another girl would take her place. Perchance some one might drop in some day and ask for her, but only in a matter-of-course way.
Only one girl in 80,000 dead. What did she count in that vast host?
One day, but a few weeks ago, I entered one of these dens on Armour avenue, in Chicago. I wandered up on to the second floor without the knowledge of the keepers. An open door attracted my attention. Peering in I saw a young girl lying on a bed.
Her head and face were swathed in bandages.
She seemed to be in great pain. On a table near at hand were several bottles of medicine. She was without a nurse and alone in the room.
I asked her what was the matter, but she only shook her head and refused to answer. I persisted. After much persuasion she lifted an edge of the bandage and exposed her face.