Текст книги "Sister Carrie"

Автор книги: Теодор Драйзер

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CHAPTER XXXVI

A GRIM RETROGRESSION:

THE PHANTOM OF CHANCE

THE VANCES, WHO HAD been back in the city ever since Christmas, had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent her address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as long as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was compelled to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Not finding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her friend entirely. The latter wondered at this strange silence, thought Carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping. Carrie was there for the same purpose.

“Why, Mrs. Wheeler,” said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a glance, “where have you been? Why haven’t you been to see me? I’ve been wondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I—”

“I’m so glad to see you,” said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed. Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. “Why, I’m living down town here. I’ve been intending to come and see you. Where are you living now?”

“In Fifty-eighth Street,” said Mrs. Vance, “just off Seventh Avenue—218. Why don’t you come and see me?”

“I will,” said Carrie. “Really, I’ve been wanting to come. I know I ought to. It’s a shame. But you know—”

“What’s your number?” said Mrs. Vance.

“Thirteenth Street,” said Carrie, reluctantly. “112 West.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Vance, “that’s right near here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Carrie. “You must come down and see me some time.”

“Well, you’re a fine one,” said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while noting that Carrie’s appearance had modified somewhat. “The address, too,” she added to herself. “They must be hard up.”

Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow.

“Come with me in here a minute,” she exclaimed, turning into a store.

When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard was at least four days old.

“Oh,” thought Carrie, “if she were to come here and see him?”

She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation was becoming unbearable.

Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner:

“Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?”

“No,” he said. “They don’t want an inexperienced man.”

Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more.

“I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon,” she said, after a time.

“Did, eh?” he answered.

“They’re back in New York now,” Carrie went on. “She did look so nice.”

“Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it,” returned Hurstwood. “He’s got a soft job.”

Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him.

“She said she thought she’d call here some day.”

“She’s been long getting round to it, hasn’t she?” said Hurstwood, with a kind of sarcasm.

The woman didn’t appeal to him from her spending side.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Carrie, angered by the man’s attitude. “Perhaps I didn’t want her to come.”

“She’s too gay,” said Hurstwood, significantly. “No one can keep up with her pace unless they’ve got a lot of money.”

“Mr. Vance doesn’t seem to find it very hard.”

“He may not now,” answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding the inference; “but his life isn’t done yet. You can’t tell what’ll happen. He may get down like anybody else.”

There was something quite knavish in the man’s attitude. His eye seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart—not considered.

This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and independence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said:

“I can do something. I’m not down yet. There’s a lot of things coming to me if I want to go after them.”

It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not with any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt just right for being outside and doing something.

On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker rooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and about the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few friendly commonplaces.

He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker. Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game—not the all in all. Now, he thought of playing.

“I might win a couple of hundred. I’m not out of practice.”

It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several times before he acted upon it.

The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street, near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several games were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved.

“Deal me a hand,” he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He pulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.

Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection without progression or pairs. The pot was opened.

“I pass,” he said.

On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few dollars to the good.

The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a sangfroid which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to win much—his hand was excellent. Why not raise it five more?

“I raise you three,” said the youth.

“Make it five,” said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips.

“Come again,” said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds.

“Let me have some more chips,” said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge, taking out a bill.

A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise.

“Five again,” said the youth.

Hurstwood’s brow was wet. He was deep in now—very deep for him. Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He would not trust to this fine hand any longer.

“I call,” he said.

“A full house!” said the youth, spreading out his cards.

Hurstwood’s hand dropped.

“I thought I had you,” he said, weakly.

The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair.

“Three hundred and forty dollars,” he said.

With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.

Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more.

Remembering Mrs. Vance’s promise to call, Carrie made one other mild protest. It was concerning Hurstwood’s appearance. This very day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in.

“What makes you always put on those old clothes?” asked Carrie.

“What’s the use wearing my good ones around here?” he asked.

“Well, I should think you’d feel better.” Then she added: “Some one might call.”

“Who?” he said.

“Well, Mrs. Vance,” said Carrie.

“She needn’t see me,” he answered, sullenly.

This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him.

“Oh,” she thought, “there he sits. ‘She needn’t see me.’ I should think he would be ashamed of himself.”

The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie’s door. To her subsequent and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking that the knock was Carrie’s. For once, he was taken honestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him.

“Why,” he said, actually stammering, “how do you do?”

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know whether to invite her in or not.

“Is your wife at home?” she inquired.

“No,” he said, “Carrie’s out; but won’t you step in? She’ll be back shortly.”

“No-o,” said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. “I’m really very much in a hurry. I thought I’d just run up and look in, but I couldn’t stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me.”

“I will,” said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought.

Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vance going away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure.

“Was anybody here just now?” she asked of Hurstwood.

“Yes,” he said guiltily; “Mrs. Vance.”

“Did she see you?” she asked, expressing her full despair.

This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen.

“If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door.”

“Oh,” said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer nervousness. “What did she have to say?”

“Nothing,” he answered. “She couldn’t stay.”

“And you looking like that!” said Carrie, throwing aside a long reserve.

“What of it?” he said, angering. “I didn’t know she was coming, did I?”

“You knew she might,” said Carrie. “I told you she said she was coming. I’ve asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I think this is just terrible.”

“Oh, let up,” he answered. “What difference does it make? You couldn’t associate with her, anyway. They’ve got too much money.”

“Who said I wanted to?” said Carrie, fiercely.

“Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You’d think I’d committed—”

Carrie interrupted:

“It’s true,” she said. “I couldn’t if I wanted to, but whose fault is it? You’re very free to sit and talk about who I could associate with. Why don’t you get out and look for work?”

This was a thunderbolt in camp.

“What’s it to you?” he said, rising, almost fiercely. “I pay the rent, don’t I? I furnish the—”

“Yes, you pay the rent,” said Carrie. “You talk as if there was nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven’t done a thing for three months except sit around and interfere here. I’d like to know what you married me for?”

“I didn’t marry you,” he said, in a snarling tone.

“I’d like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?” she answered.

“Well, I didn’t marry you,” he answered. “You can get that out of your head. You talk as though you didn’t know.”

Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed it was all legal and binding enough.

“What did you lie to me for, then?” she asked, fiercely. “What did you force me to run away with you for?”

Her voice became almost a sob.

“Force!” he said, with curled lip. “A lot of forcing I did.”

“Oh!” said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. “Oh, oh!” and she hurried into the front room.

Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up for him, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and then went for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie; she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first, with the faintest alarm, of being left without money—not of losing him, though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the top of the wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door closed, and she knew he had gone.

After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked out the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the flat, toward Sixth Avenue.

The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth Street to Union Square.

“Look for work!” he said to himself. “Look for work! She tells me to get out and look for work.”

He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which told him that she was right.

“What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance’s call was, anyhow,” he thought. “Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was thinking.”

He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eighth Street. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put on the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to think she had caught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in his distress.

“The devil!” he said a dozen times in an hour.

It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was in tears. There would be no dinner that night.

“What the deuce,” he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame from himself. “I’m not so bad. I’m not down yet.”

He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels, decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and make himself comfortable there.

He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not allow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming addicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to satisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the morrow—he could not stand to think of it any more than he could of any other calamity. Like the certainty of death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doing it.

Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried him back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house, playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading.

His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o’clock he was through, and then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers thickening outside, wondered where he should go. Not home. Carrie would be up. No, he would not go back there this evening. He would stay out and knock around as a man who was independent—not broke—well might. He bought a cigar, and went outside on the corner where other individuals were lounging—brokers, racing people, thespians—his own flesh and blood. As he stood there, he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. Many’s the game he had had. This took him to poker.

“I didn’t do that thing right the other day,” he thought, referring to his loss of sixty dollars. “I shouldn’t have weakened. I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn’t in form, that’s what ailed me.”

Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffing a little harder.

“I’m old enough to play poker and do something with it. I’ll try my hand to-night.”

Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a couple of hundred, wouldn’t he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made their living at this game, and a good living, too.

“They always had as much as I had,” he thought.

So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood—only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.

This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while and then, seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up losing a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that account. At last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake. To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it.

In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation.

“I have three of a kind,” said one of the players to himself. “I’ll just stay with the fellow to the finish.”

The result was that bidding began.

“I raise you ten.”

“Good.”

“Ten more.”

“Good.”

“Ten again.”

“Right you are.”

It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other man really became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) really did have a stiff hand.

“I call,” he said.

Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate.

“Let’s have another pot,” he said, grimly.

“All right,” said the man.

Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their places. Time passed, and it came to twelve o’clock. Hurstwood held on, neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a last hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart.

At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place. The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. It was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he counted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change. He put it up and began to undress.

“I wonder what’s getting into me, anyhow?” he said.

In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go out again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he lived like a gentleman—or what he conceived to be a gentleman—which took money. For his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again.

“The rent man comes to-day,” said Carrie, greeting him thus indifferently three mornings later.

“He does?”

“Yes; this is the second,” answered Carrie.

Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse.

“It seems an awful lot to pay for rent,” he said.

He was nearing his last hundred dollars.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE SPIRIT AWAKENS:

NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATE

IT WOULD BE USELESS to explain how in due time the last fifty dollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling, had only carried them into June. Before the final hundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching.

“I don’t know,” he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for meat as a text, “it seems to take an awful lot for us to live.”

“It doesn’t seem to me,” said Carrie, “that we spend very much.”

“My money is nearly gone,” he said, “and I hardly know where it’s gone to.”

“All that seven hundred dollars?” asked Carrie.

“All but a hundred.”

He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time.

“Well, George,” she exclaimed, “why don’t you get out and look for something? You could find something.”

“I have looked,” he said. “You can’t make people give you a place.”

She gazed weakly at him and said: “Well, what do you think you will do? A hundred dollars won’t last long.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t do any more than look.”

Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thought desperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered the stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state which she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a last resource in distress. Something must be done if he did not get work soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone.

She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way. There must be people who would listen to and try you—men who would give you an opportunity.

They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later, when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that Sarah Bernhardt^ah was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it, too.

“How do people get on the stage, George?” she finally asked, innocently.

“I don’t know,” he said. “There must be dramatic agents.”

Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up.

“Regular people who get you a place?”

“Yes, I think so,” he answered.

Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention.

“You’re not still thinking about being an actress, are you?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, “I was just wondering.”

Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he objected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line. She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that it involved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like the rest of them. He had a good idea of what he meant by them. Carrie was pretty. She would get along all right, but where would he be?

“I’d get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It’s a lot more difficult than you think.”

Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her ability.

“You said I did real well in Chicago,” she rejoined.

“You did,” he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, “but Chicago isn’t New York, by a big jump.”

Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her.

“The stage,” he went on, “is all right if you can be one of the big guns, but there’s nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long while to get up.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Carrie, slightly aroused.

In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now, when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had not conceived well of her mental ability. That was because he did not understand the nature of emotional greatness. He had never learned that a person might be emotionally—instead of intellectually—great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to look back and sharply remember. He had lived with this woman too long.

“Well, I do,” he answered. “If I were you I wouldn’t think of it. It’s not much of a profession for a woman.”

“It’s better than going hungry,” said Carrie. “If you don’t want me to do that, why don’t you get work yourself?”

There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the suggestion.

“Oh, let up,” he answered.

The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It didn’t matter about him. She was not going to be dragged into poverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She could get something and then work up. What would he say then? She pictured herself already appearing in some fine performance on Broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room and making up. Then she would come out at eleven o’clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting for the people. It did not matter whether she was the star or not. If she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and there as she pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this picture all the day long. Hurstwood’s dreary state made its beauty become more and more vivid.

Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sum suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assist him a little until he could get something?

He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind.

“I met John B. Drake to-day,” he said. “He’s going to open a hotel here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then.”

“Who is he?” asked Carrie.

“He’s the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago.”

“Oh,” said Carrie.

“I’d get about fourteen hundred a year out of that.”

“That would be good, wouldn’t it?” she said, sympathetically.

“If I can only get over this summer,” he added, “I think I’ll be all right. I’m hearing from some of my friends again.”

Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so hopeless.

“How much money have you left?”

“Only fifty dollars.”

“Oh, mercy,” she exclaimed, “what will we do? It’s only twenty days until the rent will be due again.”

Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the floor.

“Maybe you could get something in the stage line?” he blandly suggested.

“Maybe I could,” said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the idea.

“I’ll lay my hand to whatever I can get,” he said, now that he saw her brighten up. “I can get something.”

She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She did not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres were there—these agencies must be somewhere about.

She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way. Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at the box office.

“Eh?” he said, looking out. “Dramatic agents? I don’t know. You’ll find them in the ‘Clipper,’^ai though. They all advertise in that.”

“Is that a paper?” said Carrie.

“Yes,” said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common fact. “You can get it at the news-stands,” he added politely, seeing how pretty the inquirer was.

Carrie proceeded to get the “Clipper,” and tried to find the agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This could not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting the waste of time.

Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“I’ve been trying to find some dramatic agents.”

He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success. The paper she began to scan attracted his attention.

“What have you got there?” he asked.

“The ‘Clipper.’ The man said I’d find their addresses in here.”

“Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I could have told you.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asked, without looking up.

“You never asked me,” he returned.

She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind was distracted by this man’s indifference. The difficulty of the situation she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiseration brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did not fall. Hurstwood noticed something.

“Let me look.”

To recover herself she went into the front room while he searched. Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon an envelope.

“Here’re three,” he said.

Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and then moved toward the door.

“I might as well go right away,” she said, without looking back.

Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat a while, and then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat.

“I guess I’ll go out,” he said to himself, and went, strolling nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.

Carrie’s first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into offices. Mrs. Bermudez’s offices consisted of what formerly had been a back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked “Private.”

As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about—men, who said nothing and did nothing.

While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portly lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently good-natured. At least she was smiling.

“Now, don’t forget about that,” said one of the mannish women.

“I won’t,” said the portly woman. “Let’s see,” she added, “where are you the first week in February?”

“Pittsburg,” said the woman.

“I’ll write you there.”

“All right,” said the other, and the two passed out.

Instantly the portly lady’s face became exceedingly sober and shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye.

“Well,” she said, “young woman, what can I do for you?”

“Are you Mrs. Bermudez?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, “do you get places for persons upon the stage?”

“Yes.”

“Could you get me one?”

“Have you ever had any experience?”

“A very little,” said Carrie.

“Whom did you play with?”

“Oh, with no one,” said Carrie. “It was just a show gotten—”

“Oh, I see,” said the woman, interrupting her. “No, I don’t know of anything now.”

Carrie’s countenance fell.

“You want to get some New York experience,” concluded the affable Mrs. Bermudez. “We’ll take your name, though.”