This particular buyer was a capable, cool-eyed, impersonal, young, bald-headed man.  As he walked along the aisles of his department he seemed to be sailing on a sea of frangipanni, while white clouds, machine-embroidered, floated around him.  Too many sweets bring surfeit.  He looked upon Hetty Pepper’s homely countenance, emerald eyes, and chocolate-colored hair as a welcome oasis of green in a desert of cloying beauty.  In a quiet angle of a counter he pinched her arm kindly, three inches above the elbow.  She slapped him three feet away with one good blow of her muscular and not especially lily-white right.  So, now you know why Hetty Pepper came to leave the Biggest Store at thirty minutes’ notice, with one dime and a nickel in her purse.

This morning’s quotations list the price of rib beef at six cents per (butcher’s) pound.  But on the day that Hetty was “released” by the B. S. the price was seven and one-half cents.  That fact is what makes this story possible.  Otherwise, the extra four cents would have—­

But the plot of nearly all the good stories in the world is concerned with shorts who were unable to cover; so you can find no fault with this one.

Hetty mounted with her rib beef to her $3.50 third-floor back.  One hot, savory beef-stew for supper, a night’s good sleep, and she would be fit in the morning to apply again for the tasks of Hercules, Joan of Arc, Una, Job, and Little-Red-Riding-Hood.

In her room she got the granite-ware stew-pan out of the 2x4-foot china—­er—­I mean earthenware closet, and began to dig down in a rat’s-nest of paper bags for the potatoes and onions.  She came out with her nose and chin just a little sharper pointed.

There was neither a potato nor an onion.  Now, what kind of a beef-stew can you make out of simply beef?  You can make oyster-soup without oysters, turtle-soup without turtles, coffee-cake without coffee, but you can’t make beef-stew without potatoes and onions.

But rib beef alone, in an emergency, can make an ordinary pine door look like a wrought-iron gambling-house portal to the wolf.  With salt and pepper and a tablespoonful of flour (first well stirred in a little cold water) ’twill serve—­’tis not so deep as a lobster a la Newburg nor so wide as a church festival doughnut; but ’twill serve.

Hetty took her stew-pan to the rear of the third-floor hall.  According to the advertisements of the Vallambrosa there was running water to be found there.  Between you and me and the water-meter, it only ambled or walked through the faucets; but technicalities have no place here.  There was also a sink where housekeeping roomers often met to dump their coffee grounds and glare at one another’s kimonos.