urday night an' another week gone," Mary said mournfully, her young
cheeks pallid and hollowed, her black eyes blue-shadowed and tired.
"What d'you think you've made, Saxon?"

"Twelve and a quarter," was the answer, just touched with pride "And I'd
a-made more if it wasn't for that fake bunch of starchers."

"My! I got to pass it to you," Mary congratulated. "You're a sure fierce
hustler--just eat it up. Me--I've only ten an' a half, an' for a hard
week... See you on the nine-forty. Sure now. We can just fool around
until the dancin' begins. A lot of my gentlemen friends'll be there in
the afternoon."

Two blocks from the laundry, where an arc-light showed a gang of toughs
on the corner, Saxon quickened her pace. Unconsciously her face set
and hardened as she passed. She did not catch the words of the muttered
comment, but the rough laughter it raised made her guess and warmed her
checks with resentful blood. Three blocks more, turning once to left and
once to right, she walked on through the night that was already growing
cool. On either side were workingmen's houses, of weathered wood,
the ancient paint grimed with the dust of years, conspicuous only for
cheapness and ugliness.

Dark it was, but she made no mistake, the familiar sag and screeching
reproach of the front gate welcome under her hand. She went along the
narrow walk to the rear, avoided the missing step without thinking about
it, and entered the kitchen, where a solitary gas-jet flickered.
She turned it up to the best of its flame. It was a small room, not
disorderly, because of lack of furnishings to disorder it. The plaster,
discolored by the steam of many wash-days, was crisscrossed with cracks
from the big earthquake of the previous spring. The floor was ridged,
wide-cracked, and uneven, and in front of the stove it was worn through
and repaired with a five-gallon oil-can hammered flat and double. A
sink, a dirty roller-towel, several chairs, and a wooden table completed
the picture.

An apple-core crunched under her foot as she drew a chair to the table.
On the frayed oilcloth, a supper waited. She attempted the cold beans,
thick with grease, but gave them up, and buttered a slice of bread.

The rickety house shook to a heavy, prideless tread, and through the
inner door came Sarah, middle-aged, lop-breasted, hair-tousled, her face
lined with care and fat petulance.

"Huh, it's you," she grunted a greeting. "I just couldn't keep things
warm. Su