The Wall Street Girl. Bartlett Frederick Orin

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      She shook her head.

      “Worry won’t carry you along.”

      She hesitated a moment, and then said impulsively:–

      “Now, look here–don’t get peeved at what I’m going to say, will you?”

      “I don’t believe it’s possible to get peeved with you,” he declared.

      She frowned.

      “Well, let it go at that. What I want to do is to lend you a couple of dollars until Saturday. It isn’t much, but–”

      Don caught his breath. “You–”

      She did not give him time to finish. From somewhere she produced a two-dollar bill and slipped it into his hand.

      “Take this and get an egg sandwich right now.”

      “But look here–”

      “Don’t talk. Go get a sandwich.”

      He seemed to have no alternative; but when he came back with it she had disappeared.

      He sat down, but he could not understand why she should have gone like that. He missed her–missed her more than he would have thought possible, considering that he had met her only some two hours before. Without her this place seemed empty and foreign. Without her he felt uneasy here. He hurried through his sandwich and went out–anxious to get back to her.

      CHAPTER V

      BUSINESS

      When Don came back to the office he found Miss Winthrop again at her typewriter, but she did not even glance up as he took his former place at Powers’s desk. If this was not particularly flattering, it at least gave him the privilege of watching her. But it was rather curious that he found in this enough to hold his attention for half an hour. It is doubtful whether he could have watched Frances herself for so long a time without being bored.

      It was the touch of seriousness about the girl’s eyes and mouth that now set him to wondering–a seriousness that he had sometimes noted in the faces of men who had seen much of life.

      Life–that was the keynote. He felt that she had been in touch with life, and had got the better of it: that there had been drama in her past, born of contact with men and women. She had been dealing with such problems as securing food–and his experience of the last twenty-four hours had hinted at how dramatic that may be; with securing lodgings for the night; with the problem of earning not more money but enough money to keep her alive. All this had left its mark, not in ugliness, but in a certain seriousness that made him keen to know about her. Here was a girl who was not especially concerned with operas, with books, with the drama, but with the stuff of which those things are made.

      Miss Winthrop removed from her typewriter the final page of the long letter she had finished and rapidly went over it for errors. She found none. But, as she gathered her papers together before taking them into the private office of Mr. Farnsworth, she spoke. She spoke without even then glancing at Don–as if voicing a thought to herself.

      “Believe me,” she said, “they are not going to pay you for sitting there and watching me.”

      Don felt the color spring to his cheeks.

      “I beg your pardon,” he apologized.

      “It doesn’t bother me any,” she continued, as she rose. “Only there isn’t any money for the firm in that sort of thing.”

      “But there doesn’t seem to be anything around here for me to do.”

      “Then make something,” she concluded, as she moved away.

      Blake, to whom he had been introduced, was sitting at his desk reading an early edition of an evening paper. Spurred on by her admonition, he strolled over there. Blake glanced up with a nod.

      “How you making it?” he inquired.

      “There doesn’t seem to be much for me to do,” said Don. “Can you suggest anything?”

      “Farnsworth will dig up enough for you later on. I wouldn’t worry about that.”

      “But I don’t know anything about the game.”

      “You’ll pick it up. Did I understand Farnsworth to say you were Harvard?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’m Princeton. Say, what sort of a football team have you this year?”

      Don knew football. He had played right end on the second team. He also knew Princeton, and if the information he gave Blake about the team ever went back to New Jersey it did not do the coaching staff there any good. However, it furnished a subject for a pleasant half hour’s conversation. Then Blake went out, and Don returned to his former place back of Powers’s desk.

      “I’ll bet you didn’t get much out of him,” observed Miss Winthrop, without interrupting the click of her machine.

      “He seems rather a decent sort,” answered Don.

      “Perhaps he is,” she returned.

      “He’s a Princeton man,” Don informed her.

      “He’s Percy A. Blake,” she declared–as if that were a fact of considerably more importance.

      He waited to see if she was ready to volunteer any further information, but apparently she considered this sufficient.

      At that point Farnsworth came out and took a look about the office. His eyes fell upon Don, and he crossed the room.

      He handed Don a package.

      “I wish you would deliver these to Mr. Hayden, of Hayden & Wigglesworth,” he requested.

      Farnsworth returned to his office, leaving Don staring helplessly at the package in his hands.

      “For Heaven’s sake, get busy!” exclaimed Miss Winthrop.

      “But where can I find Mr. Hayden?” inquired Don.

      “Get out of the office and look up the firm in a directory,” she returned sharply. “But hustle out of here just as if you did know.”

      Don seized his hat and obeyed. He found himself on the street, quite as ignorant of where to find a directory as he was of where to find Mr. Hayden, of Hayden & Wigglesworth. But in rounding a corner–still at full speed–he ran into a messenger boy.

      “Take me to the office of Hayden & Wigglesworth and there’s a quarter in it for you,” he offered.

      “I’m on,” nodded the boy.

      The office was less than a five minutes’ walk away. In another two minutes Don had left his package with Mr. Hayden’s clerk and was back again in his own office.

      “Snappy work,” Miss Winthrop complimented him. “The closing prices must be out by now. You’d better look them over.”

      “Closing prices of what?” he inquired.

      “The СКАЧАТЬ