uch harder, and also
she had been at our hotel almost two years, though only nine months at
this special pantry job. Before that she had made toast, and toast
only, upstairs in the main kitchen.

The first question Mary asked me that Monday morning was, "You
Spanish?" No, I wasn't. Mary was a Spanish grass widow. Ten years she
had been married, but only five of that time had she lived with her
husband. Where was he? Back in Spain. "No good." She had come on to
this country because it was too hard for a woman to make her way in
Spain. She spoke little English, but with that little she showed that
she was kindly disposed and anxious to help all she could. She herself
had a stolid, untidy efficiency about her, and all the while, poor
thing, suffered with pains in her stomach.

By the time 1.30 came around I knew what I had to do and could be left
to my own devices. To the pantry girl of our cafe fell various and
sundry small jobs. But the end and aim of her life had to be speed.

To the left of my little doorway was a small, deep sink. Next to the
sink was a very large ice chest. On the side of the ice chest next
the sink hung the four soft-boiled-egg machines--those fascinating
contrivances in which one deposited the eggs, set the notch at two,
three, four minutes, according to the desires of the hurried guest
without, sank the cup-shaped container in the boiling water, and never
gave the matter another thought. At the allotted moment the eggs were
hoisted as if by magic from out their boilings. Verily are the wonders
of civilization manifold! The sink and the protruding ice chest filled
the entire left side of my small inclosure. Along the entire right and
front was a wide work-shelf. On this shelf at the right stood the
electric toasting machine which during busy hours had to be kept going
full blast.

"Toast for club!" a waiter sang out as he sped by, and zip! the
already partially toasted bread went into the electric oven to be done
so crisply and quickly that you could call out to that waiter, "Toast
for club" before he could come back and repeat his ominous, "Toast for
club!" at you. People who order club sandwiches seem always to be in a
special hurry.

In the front corner just next the toaster stood the tray of bread
sliced ready to toast, crusts off for dry or buttered toast, crusts on
for "club," very thin slices for "toast Melba." Directly in front, and
next the bread tray, came the tray filled with littl