"That pest—that pest—she would not get out. I will give her a lesson. She will not forget as long as she lives."
"What is the matter?" I inquire.
"For the last six months she bothered me that she wants to move out from where she lives. The rooms are too dark, the walls are damp and all that sort of thing. All she wanted of course was to get out of my district. You know, I keep them pretty well together, in a few blocks. You want to move—well! I gave her the chance of her life. Let her be on the street a few days, then she will know how to appreciate her house."
That old fellow who tried to read the inscription comes up to me, "How long will I have to wait? I have been called for nine A. M. It's half past eleven now."
"I don't know, old man. You just have to wait." He shakes his head and goes back to his place on the bench, and again reads the inscription.
"The terror" has released her victim. Coming out the woman leaves her face uncovered. She has gone one step lower, robbed of the sense of shame. She is young and beautiful. Pale, very pale. Her eyes are red. She cried. She has got to see the Manager. Before entering the sanctum she fixes her stray hair and dries her eyes. "She is green," remarks the office boy. "Doesn't know the trade." "Who?" I ask. "The lady in black." He looks around: "Gee—they done quick work."
The investigators are in a hurry to-day. Noon. Only a few employés remain. All the others go to lunch. About forty applicants still in the waiting room. Their names have not been called. The janitor orders them out. Again they throng the street. He drives them off the stairs. They tramp the sidewalk, up and down, and it's so very hot, 96 degrees. I lunch with the others. Mrs. H. still talking about yesterday's show and about that woman that did not want to obey her and get out. They talk shop during lunch. Sam's prowess as a spitting marksman is highly praised. "Champion spitter of the world," Cram proclaims him. "A clever boy." "A sensible boy." "Gay." "Clever, very clever." "He will be a man." "Oh, yes, oh, yes. He will rise high."
Their admiration for Sam is boundless. They recall his repartees on different occasions and how he once cynically remarked to the Manager: "A woman died in the waiting room, sir. Shall I bring you her record? P. B. 9761 is the number." He got his raise not long after that. The Manager was struck by the boy's efficiency and his splendid memory.
"Why," said Mrs. B., "he knows all the records by heart. G. D. 7851 has four children, husband dead, three dollars r. c. cl. Just ask him when you want to know. He will tell it off before you can say a word or consider."
Then from the boy the discussion drifted to the new Manager and his peculiarities and how he compared with the former occupant of his office. "He is too lenient with the people," says Mrs. H. "Wait until he gets fooled good and hard," intervened Cram. "Wait, when he gets fooled a few times and the committee grumble there will be something doing, I tell you."