ory instead of a watch works. All he needs
is a little dill and a handful of grape leaves to make him good eatin'
as a relish."

And she thought of Chuck Mory, perched on the high seat of the American
Express wagon, hatless, sunburnt, stockily muscular, shouting to his
horse as he galloped clattering down Winnebago Street on his way to the
depot and the 7:50 train.

I suppose there was something about the clear simplicity and uprightness
of the firm little figure that appealed to Nap Ballou. He used to regard
her curiously with a long, hard gaze before which she would grow
uncomfortable. "Think you'll know me next time you see me?" But there
was an uneasy feeling beneath her flip exterior. Not that there was
anything of the beautiful, persecuted factory girl and villainous
foreman about the situation. Tessie worked at watchmaking because it was
light, pleasant, and well paid. She could have found another job for the
asking. Her money went for white shoes and pink blouses and lacy boudoir
caps which she affected Sunday mornings. She was forever buying a vivid
necktie for her father and dressing up her protesting mother in gay
colours that went ill with the drab, wrinkled face. "If it wasn't for
me, you'd go round looking like one of those Polack women down by the
tracks," Tessie would scold. "It's a wonder you don't wear a shawl!"

That was the Tessie of six months ago, gay, care-free, holding the reins
of her life in her own two capable hands. Three nights a week, and
Sunday, she saw Chuck Mory. When she went downtown on Saturday night it
was frankly to meet Chuck, who was waiting for her on Schroeder's
drug-store corner. He knew it, and she knew it. Yet they always went
through a little ceremony. She and Cora, turning into Grand from
Winnebago Street, would make for the post office. Then down the length
of Grand with a leaping glance at Schroeder's corner before they reached
it. Yes, there they were, very clean-shaven, clean-shirted, slick
looking. Tessie would have known Chuck's blond head among a thousand. An
air of studied hauteur and indifference as they approached the corner.
Heads turned the other way. A low whistle from the boys.

"Oh, how do!"

"Good evening!"

Both greetings done with careful surprise. Then on down the street. On
the way back you took the inside of the walk, and your hauteur was now
stony to the point of insult. Schroeder's corner simply did not exist.
On as far as Megan's which you ent