Winnie Childs by C. N. Williamson

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At last the procession had moved on so far that this girl arrived at
the lighted window. Win's heart, which had missed a beat in a sudden
flurry of fear now and then, began to pound like a hammer.

For the first time she could see the god in the machine, the
superintendent of Peter Rolls's vast store, a kind of prime minister
with more power than the king. She had fancied that he would be old, a
man of such importance in a great establishment, a person who had the
nickname of Father. But her anxious gaze, as she carefully kept her
distance, told that he was not even middle-aged. He was, it seemed, a
curious mixture of cherub and Mephistopheles in type: round faced,
blue eyed, with smooth cheeks that looked pink even in the cruel
electric light. His hair and brushed-up eyebrows were thin and of a
medium brown; but he had a sharply waxed moustache and a little
pointed goatee or "imperial" so much darker in colour that they were
conspicuous objects.

He was talking to the girl in a high-keyed yet somewhat blustering
voice, asking questions which Win could not and did not try to hear.
The answers were given purposely in a low tone, and the girl laid on
the counter several papers from a little black bag at her waist. These
the superintendent took up, unfolding them with plump, dimpled
fingers, like those of a young woman.

With his bright, glancing blue eyes he skimmed the contents of each
paper--probably references, thought Win--and then returned them to
their owner.

"These are no good," he pronounced in a louder voice than before. "And
you don't look strong enough for Christmas work---"

Suddenly the red-haired girl darted her head forward, like that of a
pecking bird, hastily muttered a few words, and drew back, as if
hoping that those not concerned might fail to notice the manoeuvre.

"Oh--er--that's different," said the superintendent in an odd,
uncomfortable tone, with the hint of "bluster" still in it. Win
fancied she heard him add: "What salary?" In any case, the girl
mentioned the sum of eight dollars, and at the same time scribbled
something on a printed paper form pushed over the counter.

"Bet that ain't _your_ line, kid," there came a murmur round the
corner of a velvet bow on Win's hat. So faint was the murmur that she
might almost have dreamed it; but, if uttered, it must have dropped
from heaven or the lion tamer's lips.

Win was burning with curiosity. What two or three talismanic words
could the red-haired girl have whispered so quietly, so secretively,
to change in a second the superintendent's decision? It was almost
like freemasonry. You whispered to the hangman, and he, realizing that
you were a member, took the noose off your neck!

Alas, if Father refused her services, as he almost surely would, she
had no such magic charm to make him change his mind! There was
certainly a mystery, a secret password that did the trick; but the
lion tamer, though a newcomer in this business like herself, appeared
to know or guess, and bet that it "wasn't in her line."

Too late to ask questions! Her time had come. The red-haired girl,
looking prettier than before because of a bright flush on her sallow
face, pranced away, head triumphantly up, and a key and a queer little
book in her hand.

Before Win realized what was happening she stood before the big,
lighted window, longing though not daring to rest her trembling elbows
on the counter. The cherubic yet keen blue eyes were staring into hers
with the oddest expression she had ever seen. If the man had not been
an important official, far above her (he would have thought) in
position, Win might have fancied that he was afraid of her, afraid of
something which he half expected, half dreaded, wishing to avert it,
yet likely to be mortified if it did not come.

"I must be out of my mind," she told herself, at the same time telling
him that she desired an engagement as an extra hand.

"What references?" he inquired, with the mechanical intonation of one
who has put the same question thousands of times.

"I--haven't any," stammered Win. "I'm lately over from England---"

"You don't need to mention that," broke in the superintendent. "I know
London. Have you worked in any of the big department stores
there--Harrods' or Selfridge's?" He looked, Win thought (clinging to a
straw of hope), as if he were not unwilling to help her.

"No, none. I was a model for Nadine. I'm quick at doing figures---"

"The figures that models _cut_ are more to the point, I guess!" The
cherub Mephistopheles smiled at this joke and did not seem to care
just then that his every extra word kept the procession back an extra
instant. "We're not wanting models at present. But if you've had any
experience as a saleslady--you look all right--well, see here, I'll
try and give you a chance. It's up to you to make good, though. What
money do you want? Write it down."

He indicated one of those forms which Win had seen. She hesitated,
then felt that the blue eyes were watching her keenly. Hesitation was
not the way to succeed in this home of hustle. She remembered that
the red-haired girl, though she must have had experience or she would
not have possessed references, had said something about eight dollars.
"I'll say seven," Win told herself, and wrote accordingly on the
paper.

"We can't pay seven dollars per week to a girl without experience,"
pronounced the superintendent promptly. "If you want to take six, I'll
give you a test of character. You ought to be thankful for six. By and
by you may work up into one of the departments where we pay
commissions."

"I'll take six," Win said.

Though already she knew something of the expense of living in New
York, six dollars a week certainly seemed generous compared with
shop-girls' wages at home. She had been told that there they got only
twelve or fourteen shillings, and sometimes less. Of course, in
England, you "lived in." Win had heard that expression, and was aware
of its meaning. She was not yet quite sure what you did in America,
for she had talked to none of her very few acquaintances about the
need she had to look for work in a department store. There was only
one thing she did know in that connection: it would be unwise to ask
Father questions.

She must appear to be "all there," and trust to finding out the
routine of a New York shop-girl's life from one of themselves. She
hoped the sardine would be engaged--nice, trim little sardine with
smooth black pompadour, small white face, jewel-bright eyes,
pugnacious nose, determined chin! A snappy yet somehow trustworthy
sardine.

Still the superintendent was observing her, as if to see whether she
were warranted sound and kind. "I'm going to put you into a bargain
square," said he thoughtfully. "Do you know what that means?"

"I can guess," said she.

"One of our two-hour bargain sales will tell better than anything else
whether you've got stuff in you," he went on. "Have you ever seen a
check book?" was the question now flashed at her.

Win had just sense enough left not to blurt out any nonsense about a
bank. In an instant she realized that the pads upon which salespeople
did hasty sums must be called check books, anyhow in America. She
answered that she had seen one.

"Know what to do with it?"

"On principle. I can soon learn the method."

"Soon's a long word. You may have time for it, _your_ side. We
haven't. Things have gotta be learned on the nail. See here, what
about your dress? Are you wearing black under that jacket?"

Win's heart jumped. She had not expected, if engaged, to begin work
the next moment. She had supposed that she would be told to return the
next morning before the opening hour for customers; otherwise it might
have occurred to her that it would be well to get a ready-made black
dress. But she must not throw away this chance which seemed to be
hanging in the balance.

"No," she answered quickly. "I thought it would be better to buy
something here when I knew just what was wanted. I can find a dress
which will fit, I know. I always can, and I can be in it fifteen
minutes from now."

"Well," the superintendent said with half-grudging approval that lit
a faint twinkle in his eyes, "you're no slow coach for an
Englishwoman. You may do. We sell 10 per cent. off to our employees.
Here's the key of your locker. Here's your check book. When you've got
your dress, ask for the schoolroom. Take fifteen minutes' lesson on
the blackboard for making out your checks, and the rest's up to you.
But look sharp. We've been open to customers for half an hour now. At
ten-thirty a two-hours' bargain sale of blouses, sashes, and ladies'
fancy neckwear opens on the first floor. That's yours. You must be in
the square more than half an hour before the sale begins, to see stock
and learn your job."

He eyed her sharply to see if she were "feazed." But Win had the
feeling that a "stiff upper lip" was needed for the honour of England
and the pluck of its womanhood. She remembered one of the stories she
had loved best as a child--the story of the task Venus set for Psyche
before she could be worthy of Cupid, the lover whose wings she had
burned with a drop of oil from her lamp. Now the girl, grown out of
childhood, understood how Psyche had felt when told to count the
grains of wheat in Venus's granary within a certain time limit.

"Well, anyhow, Psyche didn't ask questions, and I won't," she said to
herself. "The kind ants came and told her things: maybe the sardine
will come to me."

Looking almost preternaturally intelligent and pleased with life, Win
accepted the key and check book, and learned with a shock that, as one
of Peter Rolls's hands, she was No. 2884.

CHAPTER IX

THE TEST OF CHARACTER

The sardine's ears must have been sharp, for although the lion tamer
was between her and Win (like a thick chunk of ham in a thin
sandwich), she had heard something of the conversation at the
superintendent's window.

"Try the basement bargain counters for your dress; you'll get it
cheaper," she flung after the tall Effect in a shrill whisper as the
newly engaged hand flashed by.

There wasn't a second, or even half a second to lose, yet Win
slackened her pace to say "Thank you. I do hope we shall meet again."

Even the lion tamer threw her a look, though already he had taken his
turn at the window; but Win did not see the admiring glance. She was
flying down the stairs she had come up so slowly, and did not pause
for breath until she was in the basement. There it was so crowded and
so hot, though the store had been open to customers not quite an hour,
that there seemed little air to breathe, even had there been time.

Win could see no means of ventilation in the immense room, which was
brightly and crudely lit by pulsing white globes of electricity. There
were no partitions to divide one department from another, and it
seemed as if samples of every article in the world were being sold on
these rows upon rows of heaped-up tables.

Taking her for a customer, a floorwalker saved the bewildered girl
from wasting more than a minute of her valuable time. The thermometer
of his manner fell a degree when he learned that she was an employee;
nevertheless, he directed her to the bargain counter where black dress
skirts were being sold. There was another nearby which offered black
silk and satin blouses. The man asked if she had been told that extra
hands, if on probation, must give money down for anything above the
first week's wage, and looked impressed when the tall girl answered
that she preferred to pay cash for the whole.

"Princess, queen!" he murmured _sotto voce_, and Win might have had
the privilege of exchanging a smile with him on the strength of the
joke, but thought it might be wiser not to have heard.

Luckily black skirts and blouses were not the craze of the moment.
Women were besieging a beehive of corsets and a hotbed of petticoats,
reduced (so said huge red letters overhead) to one third of their
original price. In less than five minutes Win had secured a costume
with the right measurements, and for the two portions of which it
consisted, had paid exactly one week's salary.

With an unwrapped parcel rolled under one arm, she battled her way
back to the staircase she had descended (not daring to squeeze her
unworthy body into a crowded elevator), and toiled up to the eighth
floor. There, she had been told, were dressing-rooms as well as
lockers; a rest room (converted into a schoolroom from the hour of
eight until ten), and the restaurant for women employees.

Lightning change act first! Black Effect to take the place of brown,
a rush for the dressing-room, vague impression of near marble basins
and rows of mirrors; tall, slim girl in front of one, quite the proper
"saleslady" air, in new, six-dollar black skirt and silk blouse
lightened with sewed-in frills of white, fit not noticeably bad; dash
along corridor again for locker room, but sudden wavering pause at
sight of confused group: half-fainting girl in black being handed over
to capped and aproned nurse by two youths at an open door, glimpse of
iron bedsteads etched in black against varnished white wall, door shut
with slap; youths marching light heartedly away, keeping time to the
subdued whistle of "Waiting for the Robert E. Lee."

Girls sometimes faint here, then, before ten o'clock in the morning!
And quite a matter of course to shed them in the hospital room,
otherwise one wouldn't try one's tango steps going away. But never
mind; laugh first, or the world will! Life easier for Peter Rolls's
hands as well as other people if they can live it in ragtime. Your
turn to fall to-day. Mine to-morrow. "Waiting for the Robert E. Lee!"
And whatever you may think, don't lose a minute.

Winifred did not. Perhaps she, too, was beginning to think in ragtime.
She was telling her number to the doorkeeper of the locker room as the
slap of the hospital door ceased to vibrate through the long corridor
on the eighth story.

The locker room had countless rows of narrow cells with iron gratings
for doors; and the gimlet gaze of two stalwart young females pierced
each newcomer. It was their business to see that Peter Rolls's hands
did not pilfer each other's belongings. The gimlet eyes must note the
outdoor clothing each girl wore on arrival, in order to be sure that
she did not go forth at evening clad in the property of a comrade.
Being paid to cultivate suspicion had soured the guardian angels'
tempers. One had a novel by Laura Jean Libbey, the other an
old-fashioned tale by Mary J. Holmes, to while away odd minutes of
leisure; but it appealed to the imagination of neither that any or all
of the girls flitting in and out might be eligible heroines for their
favourite authors, stolen at birth from parent millionaires,
qualifying through pathetic struggles with poverty to become the
brides of other millionaires, or, perhaps, to win an earl or duke.

All the regularly engaged hands had long ago shut up their hats and
cloaks in prison and gone about their business. It was only the extras
who were arriving at this late hour to show their numbers and claim
their lockers. There were comparatively few amateurs. Most of the
girls had had shop experience, but greenhorns betrayed ignorance as
they entered. To them, shortly and succinctly, were explained the
rules: the system of "stubs" dealt out to newcomers as they gave their
numbers and had lockers assigned them--stubs to be religiously kept
for the protection of property from false claimants; the working of a
slot machine, in which must be slipped a card, and the moment of the
morning and midday arrival thus recorded with ruthless exactitude
(twenty-five cents docked off your pay if you were late), and other
odds and ends of routine information, such as the hours at which
lockers might or might not be opened without the presentation of
special passes.

As Win fitted her key into the grated door which would in future
pertain to No. 2884, into the locker room bounced the sardine.

"Hello, Lady Ermyntrude!" said she. "I thought I'd pick you up some
place. Just a jiffy, and we can skip to the schoolroom together, if
your ladyship pleases."

"I am glad!" said Win, and as they went out side by side she ventured
to add: "Please do tell me why you call me Lady Ermyntrude. I hope I'm
not like anything so awful as that?"

"Oh, there's always a Lady Ermyntrude in every English book you read,
and you look as if you'd walked out of one. I don't know why, but you
do. I kind of like you, though."

"So do I you," said Win, but did not tell her that she was a sardine.
This might be a worse epithet in a foreign language even than Lady
Ermyntrude.

"I'm for the toy department. What are you?" rapped out the clear
little voice that matched the clear little personality--a personality
which, at the top of its pompadour, did not reach the tip of Win's
ear.

"Mine is called a two-hour bargain sale---"

"Heaven help you! Basement?"

"No, ground floor."

"Thank your stars. That's a cut above. Most amatoors start in the
basement bargain sales. If they live through the first day of
that--_well!_ But you're all right. You've got the look of the ones
who win."

"That's my name--'Win'--Winifred Child."

"If you ain't the Champion Giant Kid! I'm Sadie Kirk. Here's the
schoolroom. When it ain't that, it calls itself the rest room, you
know. I'm here only because there's a little difference in Rolls's
check system from Bimgel's, where I worked till the grippe laid me low
and my place was filled. I thought I'd try the Hands for a change,
though they say it's the _limit_ and down the other side. So me for
the school! We'll sit together, and if I can help you I will."

"You're a dear," whispered Win.

"You're another. Go there yourself," was the swift retort.

The rest room was really very nice, if there were ever a chance to
rest in it--which, Miss Kirk whispered, was not likely to be the case.
There were wall bookcases with glass doors, a few oak-framed
engravings with a pale-green, "distempered" background, several
chintz-covered sofas with cushions, and plenty of easy chairs.

On small tables lay very back numbers of illustrated papers and
magazines. The high windows had green curtains which softened their
glare and (said Sadie) prevented dust from showing. The brown-painted
floor had decorative intervals of rugs, like flowery oases. Altogether
the room would have been an excellent "show place" if any influential
millionairess began stirring up public interest in "conditions of
shop-girl life."

One end wall of the long, narrow room was almost entirely covered by
an immense blackboard, supposed to represent a check book. In front of
this stood a pale young man with a timid air, who coughed and cleared
his throat a good deal as he explained to a group of girls Peter
Rolls's specially simplified, modernly improved system of adding up
the prices of purchased "goods" in the quickest and most scientific
manner. Win listened intently, easily catching the idea, but wondering
if she should get "rattled" when she had to put it into practice in
the coming "two-hour bargain sale." Miss Kirk, however, soon saw that
the difference between this and other systems was not complicated
enough to trouble her, and let her wits wander from one subject to
another.

"That's a salesman teaching," she whispered up to her tall protegee.
"He's new to the job, I guess, and scared of us guyls; but I bet he
bullies men when he gets the chance! He'll tuyn out another Father."

Win, not having forgotten her curiosity concerning the red-haired
girl's mysterious murmur to the superintendent, longed to question the
sardine, who had the air of knowing everything she ought and ought not
to know. But the newcomer could not afford to lose a word that dropped
from the nervous teacher's lips. "Do tell me about it later," she
pleaded. "I must listen to this."

"All right. Are you lunching in or out?"

"Oh, in, I suppose."

"So will I, then, though I hear it's filthy and the grub vile. We'll
try and make a date."

Win dared not answer. With difficulty she caught the last part of the
lecture. Then her fifteen minutes of schooling were over and the real
battle of life as one of Peter Rolls's hands was to begin.

No time for the luxury of luncheon appointments. The two girls must
meet or not, as luck ordained. The toy department was on the sixth
floor, so the parting came almost at once, and Win went down to meet
her fate alone.

A floorwalker, or "aisle manager," showed her the place where the
"great two-hour bargain sale of coloured blouses, sashes, and ladies'
fancy neckwear" was advertised to begin at ten-thirty. As he steered
the girl through the crowd he looked at her with interest, and she
would have looked with interest at him could she have done so without
his knowing it. She had vaguely heard that shopwalkers in England
could make or break the salespeople. Probably floorwalkers in America
were the same, or more powerful, because everybody in this free
country who had any power at all seemed to have more than he could
possibly have anywhere else.

This man was extremely handsome she saw in the one quick, veiled
glance which can tell a girl as much as a boy is able to take in with
a long stare. He was tall and dark and clean shaven, with polished
black hair like a jet helmet, and brown eyes. Few princes could hope
to be as well dressed, and if he had been an actor, only to see his
shoulders would have made a matinee girl long to lay her head upon
one. _Why_ wasn't he an actor, then, at many dollars a week, instead
of a floorwalker at a few? It must be that his fairy godmother had
forgotten to endow him with some essential talent.

Seeing that he looked at her sympathetically with his rather sad, dark
eyes, Win ventured with all respect to beg a little enlightenment as
to a two-hour bargain sale.

"It means that certain things are marked down for two hours," he
explained, "and after that anything left of the lot goes up to the old
price again. It's a pretty hard test for one who's new to the whole
business. The superintendent, Mr. Meggison, has put you on to a pretty
stiff thing," he added. And then again, after an instant's pause:
"You're going to land in a wasps' nest over there. There's some
electricity in the atmosphere this morning. But keep your head and
you'll be all right."

They came within sight of a hollow square formed by four long
counters. Above it was a placard with red and black lettering which
announced the sale to begin at half-past ten; everything to be sold at
bargain price till twelve-thirty. Within were six saleswomen, two for
each side of the square; and the question flashed through Win's head:
Why had she been imported to make an odd number? It was an exciting
question, taken in connection with the floorwalker's warning.

Until sale time these counters were out of the congested region; and
the six saleswomen were taking advantage of the lull before the storm
to put finishing touches on the arrangement of the stock. The instant
that Win was inside the square it was as if she had been suddenly
swallowed up in a thunder cloud. The head saleswoman (she must be
that, Win thought, judging from the attention paid her by the rest)
was in a black rage--a beautiful Jewess, older than the others, and
growing overplump, but magnificently browed, and hardly thirty yet.

"It's damnable!" she panted, full breast heaving, throat swelling with
stifled sobs, "to put this onto me! Anybody with half an eye can see
through the trick. The Queen of England couldn't get rid of these
nasty rags at a charity bazaar."

She went on without noticing the newcomer, except to flash across
Win's face and figure a lightning, Judith glance which seemed to pitch
a creature unknown and unwanted into the bottomless pit where all was
vile. Her satin-smooth olive hands, with brilliantly polished coral
nails, trembled as, gesticulating, she waved them over the stock which
littered the four counters. She seemed to be throwing her curse upon
blouses, sashes, and ladies' neckwear; and had she been a witch, with
power of casting spells, the masses of silk and satin would have burst
into coloured flame.

"Oh, Miss Stein, don't feel that way about it," pleaded a thin girl
who looked utterly bloodless. "The things are marked down so low maybe
they'll go off."

"Look at them--_look_ at them!" broke out the Jewess. "Is there
anything you'd take for a present, one of you? They might as well have
sent me to the basement and be done with it. But I'll show _him_, and
her, too, how much I care before the day's out."

So fierce was the splendid creature's emotion that Win felt the hot
contagion of it. What had happened she did not know, though evidently
the others did and sympathized, or pretended to. But even she, a
stranger, could spring at a conclusion.

Miss Stein was called upon to sell things which she thought no
customers would buy. Somebody in power had put her in this position,
out of spite, to get her into trouble. There was another woman in the
case. There must be jealousy. This tigerish Judith was suffering as
keenly as a human creature could suffer, and all because of some
blouses, some sashes, and ladies' fancy neckwear, which certainly had
an unattractive appearance as they lay on the counters in confused
heaps.

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