On the wall was a printed warning that the management positively did not allow cooking in the rooms. Nan hung her wet hat over the top of it and proceeded with her cooking. The room was full of the savoury odours when Madge Allan came in. She slammed the door quickly behind her and grinned at Nan.
Madge Allan was a different type than Nan Whitlock. Madge was a tall, willowy blonde, affecting much rouge, flashily dressed. Just now her face was streaked with rain, and her Hudson seal coat looked rather bedraggled.
“Well, I dodged her,” she said triumphantly. “Stood out there in the rain until the noblest Roman of them all went to the kitchen to take a fall out of the cook for using too much shortening in the pie crust, and then I took them stairs four at a time. Hamburger and onions! My Gawd, honey, don’t you ever lose your appetite for dainties like that?”
Nan shrugged her shoulders.
“No dodging it now,” she said rather bitterly. “Lost my job to-day. Cutting down the force, they said. They’ll pay a dividend on what they’ll save on my salary, I suppose.”
“Aw, gee, that’s tough!” Madge flapped her hands dismally against her wet coat. “Canned in the winter, like a—a—what do they can in the winter, Nan? Pshaw, that’s too bad. And my show closes to-morrow night.”
She came over closer to Nan and put a hand on her shoulder affectionately.
“Don’t you worry, kid, I like you a lot, because you never ask questions. One of these days I’m going to fall into some money, and when I do, we’ll—well, you wait. Oh, it won’t be long. Nope, I don’t crave hamburger. Jack Pollock is taking me out to the Cliff House for dinner to-night if I can get out of here without giving up my coat to the landlady.”
“She’s taken your trunk, Madge.”
“My trunk!” Madge whirled around and looked at the corner of the room, where her trunk had been. Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed with anger.