Winnie Childs by C. N. Williamson

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"He says, 'it's up to you, Miss Stein!'" the quivering voice jerked
out in bitter mimicry. "Up to _me_, indeed! And he gives me this rag
bag!"

"It'll be nuts to _her_ if you're downed," remarked a girl with a
round, pink face.

"Don't you think I _know_ it?" Miss Stein demanded fiercely. Her eyes
filled with tears, which she angrily dried with a very dirty
handkerchief that looked strangely out of keeping in the manicured
hands. "There's nothing to do, or I'd do it, except to give him a
piece of my mind and throw up the job before they have the chance to
fire me."

"You wouldn't--just at this time!" cried the anemic girl.

"Wouldn't I? You'll see. I don't care a tinker's curse what becomes of
me after to-day."

Win's ears were burning as if they had been tweaked. The minutes were
passing. She could ask no help, no information concerning her duties.
If she put a question as to what she was to do she would be snubbed,
or worse. Could the far-away and almost omnipotent Mr. Meggison have
had secret knowledge of this lion's den into which he had thrown her?
He had said the bargain square and the two-hours' sale would be a test
of character. At this rate, she would fail ignominiously, and she did
not want to fail. But neither did she want the beautiful Jewess to
fail. Her anxiety was not all selfish. "A test of character!" Was
there nothing, _nothing_ she could do for her own and the general
good?

Suddenly her spirit flew back to the ship. Peter Rolls's face came
before her. She saw his good blue eyes. She heard him say: "If ever I
can help---"

How odd! Why should she have thought of him then? And no one could
help, least of all he, who had probably forgotten all about her by
this time, Miss Rolls having spoiled his horrid, deceitful game. She
must help herself Yet it was just as if Peter had come and suggested
an idea--really quite a good idea, if only she had the courage to
interrupt Miss Stein.

She and Peter had chatted one night on B deck about the Russian
dancers and Leon Bakst's designs. She had lectured Peter on the
amazing beauty of strangely combined colours, mixtures which would not
have been tolerated before the "Russian craze." Now Peter seemed to be
reminding her of what she had said then, a silly little boast she had
made, that with "nothing but a few rags and a Bakst inspiration" she
could put together a gorgeous costume for a fancy-dress ball.

"When you want to set up for a rival to Nadine, I'll back you," Peter
had retorted, and they had both laughed.

Now, with the immense but impersonal "backing" of Peter Rolls, Sr.'s,
great shop, she had the Bakst inspiration and the tingling ambition to
set up (in a very small way) as a rival to Nadine.

"I beg your pardon," she stammered to Miss Stein, and hastened on as a
fierce, astonished look was fastened upon her from under a black cloud
of stormy brow. "I--I hope you'll excuse my interrupting, but I've
been a model of Nadine's, and--and I have an idea, if you'll allow
me--I mean, you don't seem to like these things we have to sell. I
believe we could make something of them if we hurried."

All through she had the feeling that if she could not hold Miss
Stein's eyes until she had compelled interest, hope was lost. She put
her whole self into the effort to hold the eyes, and she held them,
talking fast, pouring the magnetic force of her enthusiasm into the
angry, unhappy soul of the other.

"What do you mean?" asked Miss Stein, abruptly taking the sharp,
judicial air of the business woman. Half resentful, half contemptuous,
she could not afford to let slip the shadow of a chance.

"I'll show you, if I may," said Win.

She, the outsider, the intruder, suddenly dominated the situation. The
others, even Miss Stein herself, gave way before the Effect in black
as it came close to one of the counters and with quick, decided
touches began manipulating those blouses, sashes, and ladies' fancy
neckwear which the Queen of England could not sell at a charity
bazaar.

A box of steel pins of assorted sizes lay on a cleared corner of the
counter which Win had approached. It had been brought, perhaps, for
the pinning of labels onto the newly repriced stock. Win took a purple
sash and draped it round the waistline of a dull-looking, sky-blue
blouse. Quickly the draping was coaxed into shape and firmly held with
pins. Then under the collar was fastened a crimson bow ("ladies' fancy
neckwear!") which had been hideous in itself, but suddenly became
beautiful as a butterfly alighting on a flower.

"My!" exclaimed the anemic girl, and glanced cautiously from under her
eyelids to see whether approval or disgust were the popular line to
take.

But Miss Stein--still resentful, and now beginning to be jealous of a
green hand's originality and daring taste--was not an Oriental for
nothing. She didn't possess the initiative ability of a designer, but
she could appreciate the crashing music of gorgeous colours met
together on the right notes. Love of colour was in her Jewish blood,
and she was a shrewd business woman also, animated with too vital a
selfishness to let any opportunity of advancement go. She seized the
new girl's idea at a glance, realized its value and its possible
meaning for herself.

"That's queer, but it's smart," she pronounced, and five anxious faces
brightened. "I'd 'a' thought o' that if I hadn't been so awful
worried; my head feels stuffed full o' wadding. I don't seem to have
room for two ideas. Me and you can tell the guyls what to do, and
they'll do it. See here, as fast as we get those things fixed we'll
hang 'em up on the line and make a show. Gee! they'll draw the dames a
mile off, just out of curiosity and nothing else."

"And when we get them we'll get their money, too," Win prophesied
cheerfully. "We'll christen these things Pavlova Russian Sash-Blouses,
and say it's the latest dodge only to _pin_ them together so
purchasers can change the drapery to fit their figures. When we've
sold all we can finish before ten-thirty we'll make a point of pinning
on drapery and neckties in the customers' presence to suit their
taste. I can undertake that part, if you like."

"You do think you're _some_ girl, don't you?" was Miss Stein's only
comment. But Win saw that she meant to accept the scheme and "work it
for all it was worth."

A light of hope and the excitement of battle shone down the dull flame
of anger in her eyes. There was no gleam of gratitude there, and if
Win had wanted it she would have been disappointed; but just at this
moment she wanted nothing on earth save to push that beautiful Jewess
to a triumph over "_him and her_" and to make the two-hour sale of
Pavlova Russian Sash-Blouses a frantic, furious success.

CHAPTER X

PETER ROLLS'S LITTLE WAYS

Something strange had happened in the ground-floor bargain square. The
wasps' nest had suddenly turned into a beehive. The buzz of rage had
lulled to the hum of industry. Fred Thorpe, the "aisle manager," was
blessed with the tact which only some secret sympathy or great natural
kindness can put into a man; and it had kept him at a distance from
Miss Stein that morning. He knew the inner history of that particular
bargain sale, and there were reasons why he should understand with
peculiar acuteness the humiliation she had been doomed to endure. His
presence on the scene would make matters worse, and he had obliterated
himself as much as possible.

Nevertheless he saw all that went on in that direction, and the sudden
and remarkable change which took place immediately after the tall
English girl's arrival amazed him. He did not know what to make of it,
but it was so evidently a change for the better, and the time before
the sale was so short, that he decided to sink conventions and let the
saleswomen alone.

The floorwalker had plenty of other things to keep him busy, but his
subself eyed the strenuous, mysterious preparations for the coming
two-hour sale of blouses, sashes, and ladies' fancy neckwear. Five
minutes ago the unfortunate stock (which finished the latest chapter
of Stein-Horrocks-Westlake-Thorpe inner history) had laid in neglected
heaps on the four counters which walled in the hollow square. Miss
Stein and her five companions had confined their energies to examining
labels, and that in a perfunctory manner, a mere cloak for feverish
whisperings. The sale was doomed to failure--had been doomed from the
moment that Mr. Horrocks, the manager of the department (who was also
a sub-buyer), had "dumped" a disastrous purchase from a bankrupt sale
onto the girl whom every one knew he had jilted for Miss Westlake.
There was far more in it than that; an intricate intrigue of shop
life. But so much at least was common property in the department; and
the elevation of Miss Westlake, the humiliation of Miss Stein, could
be seen by all, for Miss Westlake close by was selling the most
entrancing new fichus which had begun the day with a _succes fou_.

No use advising Miss Stein to buck up and do her best. Anything Fred
Thorpe could say on the subject would be bitterly misconstrued. He
realized that her conception of the part to play was to make the worst
of things instead of the best and snatch what satisfaction she could
from a flare-up. That was what Horrocks wanted, of course, but she was
past caring, or so it seemed until the sudden change took place after
the appearance of the new girl.

Soon Thorpe began to understand the scheme. With an eye for colour and
a swiftness of touch that was almost incredible, unsympathetic blouses
were changed into daring yet dainty "confections." As fast as the
girls finished draping the sashes and pinning on fantastically
knotted ties of contrasted colours, they hung up the most attractive
of their creations on lines above the counters which had been meagrely
furnished forth with a few stringy, fringed sashes. While some girls
worked like demons in transforming "stock," others arranged it on the
lines and counters. Complete "Pavlovas" only were displayed in
prominent places. Such things as could not be ready in time for the
sale opening were grouped as prettily as possible, according to colour
schemes, on the two less conspicuous of the four counters--those which
faced away from the more frequently occupied avenues of approach.

This was doubtless Miss Stein's experienced contribution to the plan
of battle; but, clever saleswoman as she was, when brain and heart
were cool, Thorpe realized that all credit for originating the scheme
should be given to the new girl. "She's a live wire," he said to
himself, though his deepest sympathies were for Miss Stein. And he saw
the "smartness" of Mr. Meggison in "spotting" No. 2884 for this place.

Meggison was, of course, "onto" the situation, for the whole secret of
the man's sudden rise lay in his capacity for knowing and keeping
track of every current and undercurrent of life in each department.
With Miss Stein at their head, her five assistants would not put the
energy of one into disposing of the hated stock, therefore Meggison
had sent an "extra." He had chosen a new girl because she would not
"take sides," and a girl who looked as if she might hold her own
against odds, because she would need all her "ginger" if she were to
"make good." Besides Thorpe said to himself, Meggison might have his
eye upon her, perhaps, as something out of the common run of extras
merely hired for the holidays and intend to test her.

Somehow all the department managers and floorwalkers and head salesmen
smiled dryly when they thought of Meggison (who had lately been
promoted) in connection with any girl. They seldom put into words what
lay behind the smile, for you never knew who might be a spy--a "sneak"
or a "quiz." But all the men knew his one laughable weakness, and
would rather get hold of a "sample" of it than be treated to a
champagne dinner at the Waldorf.

Long before half-past ten women who wanted blouses and had seen the
newspaper advertisements of the two-hour bargain sale began to inquire
where it would be held. Thorpe was constantly obliged to direct them,
and watching them group where they could see the decorations of the
square, his ears were sharpened for comments.

The quick minds of American women soon caught the idea which the
colour arrangement conveyed. "Why, it's like the things the Russian
dancers wear!" said one.

"It's the newest trick I've seen yet," said another.

Thorpe could not help thinking of the difference between these
exclamations and those he had expected to hear when the advertised
blouses first burst on the beholders eyes.

At ten-thirty to the second the waiting women pounced. Win's nerve
failed her for an instant in the hot forefront of her first battle,
but she caught at Miss Kirk's remembered words: "You've got the look
of those who win," and the floorwalker's advice: "Keep your head and
you'll be all right." She mustn't be a coward. She mustn't fall at
her first shot.

Soon she realized that she need expect no help from Miss Stein or the
five satellites who took their cue from her. The Russian inspiration
had happened to be acceptable but she was to be shown that she mustn't
take advantage of her start. The question or two she began to ask had
for an answer: "Good Lord, don't bother _me_!" "If you can't see for
yourself, what are your eyes for?" or "This ain't the schoolroom, I
_don't_ think!"

Maybe, she told herself, the girls were not always like this. To-day
they were desperate, and no wonder. She mustn't mind a few snubs. They
hardly knew what they were saying. The check book was more formidable
than it had seemed on the blackboard, and she envied the others their
quick, almost mechanical way of adding and subtracting. Would she ever
be like that? Meanwhile the thing was to keep the entries in her check
book correct.

She was saved, perhaps, by the need which soon arose for one girl to
put in shape for customers the blouses, sashes, and ties which had not
been pinned together. Just as her brain began to reel over a difficult
calculation which must be made in a clamouring hurry, Miss Stein
commanded a change of work.

"As soon as you're through with this customer," was the order.

Win took time to draw breath and finished the sum correctly "I should
have gone flump over the next!" she thought, with a thankful sigh, for
she was in her element, choosing colours and draping sashes to suit
customers' "styles." Miss Stein grudged her the distinction, but
granted it for the sake of business. If the girl showed signs of
"uppishness" when the sale was over she should soon be made to see
that it wouldn't pay.

Even as it was, Win used up one whole check book, containing fifty
order forms, and also her own vitality. She had no time to realize how
tired she was until half-past twelve brought the sale to an end. Even
then a thing that happened pushed away thought of self for a few more
moments.

Walking beside Mr. Thorpe, the aisle manager, came a big,
auburn-haired, red-moustached man of thirty three or four, with a
particularly pleasant, smiling face of florid colour and excitable
blue eyes. He looked boyishly obstinate, and yet, Win thought, as if
he might be easy to "get round," unless some prejudice kept him firm.
She would not have thought of him at all had not the flush which
suddenly swept over Miss Stein's face suggested that this was "he."

Win was instantly sure that here was the man in the case; now,
_cherchez la femme_! And she had not to search far.

The two men did not come to the bargain square, but he of the red
moustache slowed down to throw a glance of intense interest at the
denuded counters and the customers who lingered, though the sale was
ended, to buy "Pavlovas" at their suddenly augmented price. He spoke
to the floorwalker, and got some answer which Miss Stein would
evidently have given at least a week out of her life to hear. Then the
pair passed on, but only to pause again plainly--too plainly--in sight
of all eyes in the hollow square.

The red-moustached man parted company with his companion and went
straight to a counter where lace scarfs and fichus and wonderful
boudoir caps were achieving a brilliant success. Instantly a
fairy-like brunette with cherry lips and a bewitching, turned-up nose
came forward with a sweet meekness that was the subtlest kind of
coquetry. Whatever he had to say was said in a second or two, and the
girl answered as quickly. But she went back to work with a conscious
look which would to any watching woman announce that she considered
the man her property.

"Little pig!" Win said to herself. "She's purring with joy because
Miss Stein saw. (_Do_ pigs purr?) Anyhow I _am_ glad we've made a
success. That must be some comfort! Why, at the Hands it's like a big
theatre with a lot of different stages, where the curtains go up
unexpectedly and give you a glimpse of an act."

But exciting as the plays were, the one in which she herself had a
part began to seem very long drawn out when the first wild rush of the
two-hour act was over. Miss Stein, without a word of appreciation to
the new recruit who had saved the day, went off with the anemic girl
to lunch. Two others left at the same time, and only a couple of the
old guard remained to hold the fort with Win. Three were quite enough,
however, to cope with the diminished trade. Customers, as well as
saleswomen, were thinking of food; and as the crowd in the shopping
centres of the great store thinned perceptibly, no doubt it thickened
to the darkening of the air in the famous Pompeian restaurant on the
top floor.

Most of the best "confections" in the hollow square were sold, and
Win was aware, as interest slackened, that she felt "rather like a
hollow square" herself.

There was a little "flap" chair turned up against each of the four
counters, and at ebb-tide of custom Win looked at them wistfully.

"I suppose we're allowed to sit down for a minute when there's nothing
to do?" she inquired of a plump, dull-eyed girl who was furtively
polishing the nails of one hand with the ball of her other palm.

"We're legally allowed to, if that's what you mean," replied the
other. "But we're not encouraged to. I wouldn't, my first day,
anyways, if I was you."

"Thank you very much," said Winifred. "It's good of you to tell me
things. I won't sit down, since you advise me not. But it is hard,
standing up so long, especially after such a rush as we've had, isn't
it?"

"Oh, if you think _this_ is hard!" echoed the plump girl, Miss Jones.
(Win noticed that the saleswomen called each other by name, though
officially they were numbers.) "You ain't bin three hours yet. Wait
and see how you feel to-night when ten o'clock comes."

"Ten o'clock!" gasped Win. "I thought we closed at six."

"We're supposed to shut up then, but folks won't go these busy weeks.
They can't be chased out. And _we_ have to stay hours after they
_have_ gone, putting away stock and--oh, shucks of things. Little do
the swell dames care what happens to _us_ once they're outside the
doors. I guess they think we cease to exist the minute they don't need
us to wait on them."

"I've always heard that rich American women took such an interest in
the working--I mean, in us, who work," Win hastily amended.

"Oh, when they're old or sick of their diamonds and their automobiles
they think it'll be some spree to come and stir us guyls up to strike
against our wrongs. But when we've struck it's just about their time
for getting sick of us. I got caught that way once when I worked in a
candy-box factory. I bet I don't again! See here, I'm kind of sorry
for you if you thought the Hands was a party where they asked you to
sit down and have afternoon tea. Fred Thorpe, the floorwalker in this
depart, is a real good feller, and he'd be glad to give us a rest--a
big difference between him and _some_ I've knowed! But he dasn't treat
us as white as he'd like. In this show every _Jack_ and _Jill_ is
watched from above. There ain't nobody except Father himself das' call
his soul his own. If a chap thinks he's safe to do some tiny thing his
own way, gee! a brick falls smack on his head. That's one of Peter
Rolls's little ways."

Win shivered slightly to hear that name thus used, but Miss Jones was
absorbed in her subject.

"Us guyls ain't even supposed to talk to each other, except about
business," she went on. "But that's just the one thing they _can't_
stop, and they know they can't, so they have to wink at it. You see,
though, the way I keep folding the goods or pretending to look for
something every instant, so you'd most think I'd got the St. Vitus's
dance? Well, that's because if we just stood with our heads together
poor Thorpe would have to come careering over here and inquire what
was the subject of our earnest conversation. He'd hate it like poison,
but he'd do it all the same, or the feller above would know the
reason why."

"I thought he seemed kind and nice--I mean Mr. Thorpe," said Win.

"No use trying to mash him! He's gone on Dora Stein. Say, did you get
on to the _sale_ job? I somehow thought you did."

"I saw there was some trouble," Win hesitated.

"Trouble? There's nothing but trouble. Anybody'd think we was asking
for it! This blessed depart is upset from way back since the
promotions began. Our last superintendent got the sack through his
drunken wife coming around the place makin' scenes. And Mr. Meggison
was put over another man's head. That made t'other feller so mad he
blowed out his brains. 'Twas in the papers, but it got hushed up
mighty quick. The news, not the brains, I mean! Old Saint Peter knows
some tricks of hushin' up.

"Well, anyways, that set the ball rolling, and our head salesman was
jumped up to be department manager and buyer right over Thorpe's head.
'Twas too much for him, and he gave Dora Stein the toss. Now he wants
her out of his shine, and he dumped some jay stuff he bought in a
bankrupt sale on her to get rid of. The head buyer give him beans for
bein' fooled over a snide lot of trash like that, so what he does is
to visit it on us. He hoped Dora'd get mad and clear out so he
wouldn't see her eyes on him every time he walked past to give Miss
Westlake, his new guyl, the glad eye. But I guess now Miss Stein's
made such a big success where he hoped she'd fail, she'll stay pat."

As Miss Jones finished her story she watched Win's face to see if it
changed, but there was no sign that the newcomer grudged Miss Stein
the credit. She was actually smiling.

"There's something _queer_ about that girl," Miss Jones presently
murmured to Miss McGrath at the other end of the square, as Win was
called upon to serve a lady who had been told at luncheon about the
Pavlovas. "She ain't _natural._ What'll you bet she's a spy? I'm goin'
to ask Miss Stein what she thinks."

CHAPTER XI

DEVIL TAKE THE HINDMOST

Miss Kirk was almost ready to go from the restaurant to work again
when Win appeared, a three-cent entrance ticket in her hand, to face
an atmosphere crowded with sundry uncongenial members of the vegetable
kingdom.

"Hello, 2884 England!" Sadie feigned facetiously to call her up by
telephone. "Got yer number, all right, you see! I begun to think
they'd rung me off, so I wouldn't get onto you again this side heaven.
And say, that reminds me: heaven looks a long way from here, don't
it?"

Win smiled.

"Good thing! You ain't got yer smile rubbed off yet. Stick to it if
y'can. It's a fine prop. I otta go in a minute, but you're such a
chicken if I don't watch out for you y'might get lost in the wash. Any
one put you wise on that three-cent billy doo?"

"The girl at the door told me I was to buy it of her," said Win, "and
then I could divide it up for three different things to eat. But _can_
one get _three_ different things to eat for three cents? It seems
wonderful!"

"You won't be so much surprised when you've got 'em et. _I'd_ try a
soup, a mutton sandwich, and a cuppa cawfee for _eight_ cents, if I
was you. But see here, I ain't goin' to feed my face in this ranch
after to-day. I knowed pretty near how punk 'twould be from things
guyls told me about the Hands, and I only took a meal so as to see you
and ask how the Giant Child was gettin' along. No more o' this grub
for mine! And if I was in your place I'd go out to eat. You get a
breath o' fresh air; and a cuppa hot chocolate for a nickel at a drug
store, with a free lunch o' crackers thrown in, 'll do you a sight
more good than the best there is in _this_ dope shop."

Long before Miss Kirk had finished pouring out advice, the eight-cent
lunch of soup, sandwich, and coffee had been slapped down on a dirty
tablecloth by a frantic rabbit of a waitress. The big restaurant was
dim, even at midday, because its only windows gave upon a narrow court
which separated that part of the building from another part of equal
height. It was so dark that perhaps the hard-worked females who
cleaned it might be excused for passing blemishes sunlight would have
thrown into their faces.

One did not exactly _see_ the dirt (except on the cheap, unbleached
"damask" flung crookedly over the black oilcloth nailed onto table
tops); but, like a cowardly ghost that dares not show itself, in some
secret, shuddering way the squalor was able to make its presence felt.
Now and then a black beetle pottered across the oilcloth-covered
floor; and though a black beetle may happen anywhere, it potters only
where it feels at home, otherwise it scurries about in desperate
apology for living. The soup was cold and greasy and tasted of an
unscoured pot. The mutton sandwich, as Sadie remarked, would have been
better suited to the antique department; and the coffee, though hot,
might as easily have been tea or cocoa, or a blend of all three.

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