The Sagebrusher | Page 9

place to go. What are you
going to do, Sis? that's all. In my case--believe me, if I lose my chanct
at this man, Charlie Dorenwald, I'm going to find another some time.
"It's fifty-fifty if either of us, or any girl, would get along all right with
a husband if we could get one--it's no cinch. And now, women getting
plentier and plentier, and men still scarcer and scarcer, it's sure tough
times for a girl that hasn't eyes nor anything to get work with, or get
married with."
"Annie!" said her companion. "I wish you wouldn't!"
"Well, I wasn't thinking how I talked, Sis," said Annie, reaching out a
hand to pat the white one on the chair arm. "But fifty-fifty, my
dear--that's all the bet ever was or will be for a woman, and now her
odds is a lot worse, they say, even for the well and strong ones. Maybe
part of the trouble with us women was we never looked on this
business of getting married with any kind of halfway business sense.
Along comes a man, and we get foolish. Lord! Oughtn't both of us to
know about bargain counters and basement sales?"

"Well, let's eat, Mary," she concluded, seeing she had no answer. And
Mary Warren, broken-hearted, high-headed, silent, turned to the
remaining routine of the day.
Annie busied herself at the little box behind the stove--a box with a flap
of white cloth, which served as cupboard. Here she found a coffee pot,
a half loaf of bread, some tinned goods, a pair of apples. She put the
coffee pot to boil upon the little stove, pushing back the ornamental
acorn which covered the lid at its top. Meantime Mary drew out the
little table which served them, spread upon it its white cloth, and laid
the knives and forks, scanty enough in their number.
They ate as was their custom every evening. Not two girls in all
Cleveland led more frugal lives than these, nor cleaner, in every way.
"Let me wash the dishes, Sis," said Annie Squires. "You needn't wipe
them--no, that's all right to-night. Let me, now."
"You're fine, Annie, you're fine, that's what you are!" said Mary
Warren. "You're the best girl in the world. But we'll make it fifty-fifty
while we can. I'm going to do my share."
"I suppose we'd better do the laundry, too, don't you think?" she added.
"We don't want the fire to get too low."
They had used their single wash basin for their dish pan as well, and
now it was impressed to yet another use. Each girl found in her pocket
a cheap handkerchief or so. Annie now plunged these in the wash
basin's scanty suds, washed them, and, going to the mirror, pasted them
against the glass, flattening them out so that in the morning they might
be "ironed," as she called it. This done, each girl deliberately sat down
and removed her shoes and stockings. The stockings themselves now
came in for washing--an alternate daily practice with them both since
Mary had come hither. They hung the stockings over the back of the
solitary spare chair, just close enough to the stove to get some warmth,
and not close enough to burn--long experience had taught them the
exact distance.

They huddled bare-footed closer to the stove, until Annie rose and
tiptoed across to get a pair each of cheap straw slippers which rested
below the bed.
"Here's yours, Sis," said she. "You just sit still and get warm as you can
before we turn in--it's an awful night, and the fire's beginning to peter
out already. I wish't Mr. McAdoo, or whoever it is, 'd see about this
coal business. Gee, I hope these things'll get dry before morning--there
ain't anything in the world any colder than a pair of wet stockings in the
morning! Let's turn in--it'll be warmer, I believe."
The wind, steel-pointed, bored at the window casings all that night.
Degree after degree of frost would have registered in that room had
means of registration been present. The two young women huddled
closer under the scanty covering that they might find warmth. Ten
dollars a week. Two great-hearts, neither of them more than a helpless
girl.
CHAPTER IV
HEARTS AFLAME
They rose the next morning and dressed in the room without fire,
shivering now as they drew on their stockings, frozen stiff. They had
their morning coffee in a chilly room downstairs, where sometimes
their slatternly landlady appeared, lugubriously voluble. This morning
they ate alone, in silence, and none too happily. Even Annie's buoyant
spirits seemed inadequate. A trace of bitterness was in her tone when
she spoke.
"I'm sick of it."
"Yes, Annie," said Mary Warren. "And it's cold this morning, awfully."
"Cotton vests, marked down--to