“I didn’t want to go to Chicago,” she said.

“I suppose,” he drawled ironically, “you’ve written or telegraphed to some friends for money, and that it’s surely coming, and that you want to stay here in my hotel on credit till it does.  Well, there’s not a chance in the world.  The clerk could have told you that.  I suppose he did.”

“I haven’t sent for money,” said Rose.  “There’s no one I could send to.  I’ve got to earn it for myself and I thought there was as good a chance to earn it here as in Chicago.”

“Well, by God!” said the proprietor.  “You’ve got your nerve with you at any rate.  But I’ll tell you, young woman, the town of Centropolis don’t take kindly to the efforts of young women of your sort to make a living nor to the way they make it.”

“You’re wrong,” said Rose, dangerously quiet, “if you think I mean to make a living in any other than a decent honest way.  I have already asked for work in five places on Main Street and I have been refused as if I were the—­sort of person you’ve just called me.  I’m going to keep on until I find somebody in this town who’s clean enough minded to recognize decency when he sees it.  There are people like that, of course, even in Centropolis.  I didn’t come in here to borrow money of you, nor to ask for credit.  I came to ask for a job as a waitress.”

The proprietor stared at her.  “Well,” he said, “you are a new one on John Culver.  I never got up against your game before.”

“I haven’t any game,” said Rose.  “I’ve told you the exact truth.”

Culver twisted around uneasily in his chair and began biting thoughtfully on the end of a lead-pencil.

“Well,” he said at last, “I’ll take a chance.  I’ll tell you about a job I think you can get.  Only it won’t do you any good to use my name.  If the man you go to comes to me, I can’t tell him anything about you but what I know.  His name’s Albert Zeider and he’s got a picture house three doors down the street.  He’s just put in a glass cage out in front, and he wants a pretty girl to sit in it and sell tickets.  He hasn’t been able to get anybody yet that filled the bill.  So maybe he’d take a chance on you.  Only, mind, don’t tell him I recommended you.”

“I won’t,” said Rose.  “I won’t go to him at all.  I’ve walked the length of Main Street and back this morning, and I won’t sit in Mr. Zeider’s glass cage.  I’ll wash dishes or scrub floors, but I won’t do that.”

The proprietor flung out his hands with the air of a man of whom nothing more could be expected.

“Well, then,” he said, “if you won’t take a decent job that’s offered to you ...”

“It’s not a decent job,” said Rose.  “Not for me; not for a girl who’s looked on in this town as I am.  I want work!  Don’t you understand?” Then, after a pause, “Won’t you give it to me?”

“Well, I should say not,” said John Culver.  “Look here!  What’s the use?  Suppose you are what you say ...”