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  MARTHA BY-THE-DAY

  By JULIE M. LIPPMANN

  1912

  CHAPTER I

  If you are one of the favored few, privileged to ride in chaises, youmay find the combination of Broadway during the evening rush-hour, in alate November storm, stimulating--you may, that is, provided you have areliable driver. If, contrariwise, you happen to be of the class whosefate it is to travel in public conveyances (and lucky if you have theprice!) and the car, say, won't stop for you--why--

  Claire Lang had been standing in the drenching wet at thestreet-crossing for fully ten minutes. The badgering crowd had beenshouldering her one way, pushing her the other, until, being a strangerand not very big, she had become so bewildered that she lost her headcompletely, and, with the blind impulse of a hen with paresis, dartedstraight out, in amidst the crush of traffic, with all the chancesstrong in favor of her being instantly trampled under foot, or groundunder wheel, and never a one to know how it had happened.

  An instant, and she was back again in her old place upon the curbstone.Something like the firm iron grip of a steam-derrick had fastened on herperson, hoisted her neatly up, and set her as precisely down, exactlywhere she had started from.

  It took her a full second to realize what had happened. Then, quick as aflash, anger flamed up in her pale cheeks, blazed in her tired eyes.For, of course, this was an instance of "insult" described by "thefamily at home" as common to the experience of unprotected girls in NewYork City. She groped about in her mind for the formula to be applied insuch cases, as recommended by Aunt Amelia. "Sir, you are no gentleman!If you were a gentleman, you would not offer an affront to a young,defenseless girl who--" The rest eluded her; she could not recall it,try as she would. In desperate resolve to do her duty anyway, she tiltedback her umbrella, whereat a fine stream of water poured from the tipdirectly over her upturned face, and trickled cheerily down the bridgeof her short nose.

  "Sir--" she shouted resolutely, and then she stopped, for, plainly, heroration was, in the premises, a misfit--the person beside her--the oneof the mortal effrontery and immortal grip, being a--woman. A woman ofmasculine proportions, towering, deep-chested, large-limbed, but with aface which belied all these, for in it her sex shone forth in amotherliness unmistakable, as if the world at large were her family, andit was her business to see that it was generously provided for, alongthe pleasantest possible lines for all concerned.

  "What car?" the woman trumpeted, gazing down serenely into Claire'slittle wet, anxious, upturned face at her elbow.

  "Columbus Avenue."

  The stranger nodded, peering down the glistening, wet way, as if shewere a skipper sighting a ship.

  "My car, too! First's Lexin'ton--next Broadway--then--here's ours!"Again that derrick-grip, and they stood in the heart of the maelstrom,but apparently perfectly safe, unassailable.

  "They won't stop," Claire wailed plaintively. "I've been waiting forages. The car'll go by! You see if it won't!"

  It did, indeed, seem on the point of sliding past, as all the rest haddone, but of a sudden the motorman vehemently shut off his power, andput on his brake. By some hidden, mysterious force that was in her, orthe mere commanding dimensions of her frame, Claire's companion hadbrought him to a halt.

  She lifted her charge gently up on to the step, pausing herself, beforeshe should mount the platform, to close the girl's umbrella.

  "Step lively! Step lively!" the conductor urged insistently, reachingfor his signal-strap.

  The retort came calmly, deliberately, but with perfect good nature. "Noton your life, young man. I been steppin' lively all day, an' for solong's it's goin' to take this car to get to One-hundred-an'-sixteenthStreet, my time ain't worth no more'n a settin' hen's."

  The conductor grinned in spite of himself. "Well, mine _is_," hedeclared, while with an authoritative finger he indicated the box intowhich Claire was to drop her fare.

  "So all the other roosters think," the woman let fall with a tolerantsmile, while she diligently searched in her shabby purse for five cents.

  Claire, in the doorway, lingered.

  "Step right along in, my dear! Don't wait for me," her friend advised,closing her teeth on a dime, as she still pursued an elusive nickel."Step right along in, and sit down anywheres, an' if there ain'tnowheres to sit, why, just take a waltz-step or two in the direction o'some of them elegant gen'lemen's feet, occupyin' the places meant forladies, an' if they don't get up for love of _you_, they'll get up forlove of their shins."

  Still the girl did not pass on.

  "Fare, please!" There was a decided touch of asperity in theconductor's tone. He glared at Claire almost menacingly.

  Her lip trembled, the quick tears sprang to her eyes. She hesitated,swallowed hard, and then brought it out with a piteous gulp.

  "I _had_ my fare--'twas in my glove. It must have slipped out. It'sgone--lost--and--"

  A tug at the signal-strap was the conductor's only comment. He wasstopping the car to put her off, but before he could carry out hispurpose the woman had dropped her dime into the box with a soundingclick.

  "Fare for two!" she said, "an' if I had time, an' a place to sit, I'dturn you over acrost my knee, an' give you two, for fair, young man, forthe sake of your mother who didn't learn you better manners when you wasa boy!" With which she laid a kind hand upon Claire's heaving shoulder,and impelled her gently into the body of the car, already full tooverflowing.

  For a few moments the girl had a hard struggle to control her risingsobs, but happily no one saw her working face and twitching lips, forher companion had planted herself like a great bulwark between her andthe world, shutting her off, walling her 'round. Then, suddenly, shefound herself placed in a hurriedly vacated seat, from which she couldlook up into the benevolent face inclined toward her, and say, withouttoo much danger of breaking down in the effort:

  "I really _did_ have it--the money, you know. Truly, I'm not a--"

  "O, pooh! Don't you worry your head over a little thing like that. Suchaccidents is liable to occur in the best-reggerlated fam'lies. They doin mine, shoor!"

  "But, you see," quavered the uncertain voice, "I haven't any more.That's all I had, so I can't pay you back, and--"

  It was curious, but just here another passenger hastily rose, vacatingthe seat next Claire's, and leaving it free, whereat her companioncompressed her bulky frame into it with a sigh, as of well-earned rest,and remarked comfortably, "_Now_ we can talk. You was sayin'--what wasit? About that change, you know. It was all you had. You mean _by_ you,of course."

  Claire's pale, pinched face flushed hotly. "No, I don't," she confessed,without lifting her downcast eyes.

  Her companion appeared to ponder this for a moment, then quite abruptlyshe let it drop.

  "My name's Slawson," she observed. "Martha Slawson. I go out by the day.Laundry-work, housecleaning, general chores. I got a husband an' fourchildren, to say nothing of a mother-in-law who lives with us, an' keepsan eye on things while me an' Sammy (that's Mr. Slawson) is outworkin', an' lucky if it's an eye itself, for it's not a hand, I cantell you that. What's your name, if I may make so bold?"

  "Claire Lang. My people live in Grand Rapids--where the furniture andcarpet-sweepers come from," with a wistful, faint little attempt at asmile. "My father was judge of the Supreme Court, but he had losses, andthen he died, and there wasn't much of anything left, and so--"

  "You come to New York to make your everlastin' fortune, an' you--"

  Claire Lang shook her head, completing the unfinished sentence. "No, Ihaven't made it, that is, not yet. But I'm not dis
couraged. I don't meanto give up. Things look pretty dark just now, but I'm not going to letthat discourage me--No, indeed! I'm going to be brave and courageous,and never say die, even if--even if--"

  "Turn 'round, an' pertend you're lookin' out of the winder," suggestedMrs. Slawson confidentially. "The way folks stare, you'd think the worldwas full of nothin' but laughin' hyeenyas. Dontcher care, my dear! Wellfor some of 'em, if they could shed an honest tear or two themselves,oncet in a while, instead of bein' that brazen; 'twouldn't be water atall, but Putzes Pomady it'd take to make an impression on 'em, an'don't you forget it. There! That's right! Now, no one can observe what'soccurrin' in your face, an' I can talk straight into your ear, see? WhatI was goin' to say _is_, that bein' a mother myself an' havin' childrenof my own to look out for, I couldn't recommend any lady, let alone oneso young an' pretty as you, to take up with strangers, here in New YorkCity, be they male or be they female. No, certaintly not! But in thiscase, you can take it from me, I'm O.K. I can give the highestreferences. I worked for the best fam'lies in this town, ever since Iwas a child. You needn't be a mite afraid. I'm just a plain mother of afam'ly an', believe _me_, you can trust me as you would trust one ofyour own relations, though I do say it as shouldn't, knowin' how queer_own relations_ can be and _is_, when put to it at times. So, if youhappen to be in a hole, my dear, without friends or such things in thecity, you feel free to turn to, or if you seem to stand in need of aword of advice, or--anything else, why, dontcher hesitate a minute. It'dbe a pretty deep hole Martha Slawson couldn't see over the edge of, besure of that, even if she did have to stand on her toes to do it. Holesis my specialty, havin' been in an' out, as you might say, all mylife--particularly _in_."

  Judicious or not, Claire told her story. It was not a long one. Justthe everyday experience of a young girl coming to a strange city,without influence, friends, or money, expecting to make her way, andfinding that way beset with difficulties, blocked by obstacles.

  "I've done everything I could think of, honestly I have," she concludedapologetically. "I began by trying for big things; art-work in editorialoffices (everybody liked my art-work in Grand Rapids!). But 'twas nouse. Then I took up commercial drawing. I got what looked like a goodjob, but the man gave me one week's pay, and that's all I could evercollect, though I worked for him over a month. Then I tried real estate.One firm told me about a woman selling for them who cleared, oh, I don'tknow how-much-a-week, in commissions. Something queer must be the matterwith me, I guess, for I never got rid of a single lot, though I walkedmy feet off. I've tried writing ads., and I've directed envelopes. I'veread the Wants columns, till it seems as if everybody in the world waslooking for a _job_. But I can't get anything to do. I guess God doesn'tmean me to die of starvation, for you wouldn't believe how little I'vehad to eat all summer and fall, and yet I'm almost as strong and heartyas ever. But lately I haven't been able to make any money at all, notfive cents, so I couldn't pay my board, and they--they told me at thehouse where I live, that I'd have to square up to-night, or I couldn'tkeep my room any longer. They took my trunk a week ago. I haven't hadanything to wear except these clothes I have on, since, and they'repretty wet now--and--and--I've nowhere to go, and it _is_ pouring sohard, and I should have been put off the car if you hadn't--"

  Mrs. Slawson checked the labored flow with a hand upon the girl's knee."Where did you say your boardin'-house is?" she inquired abruptly.

  "Ninety-fifth Street--West--Two-hundred-and-eighty-five-and-a-half."

  "Good gracious! An' we're only three blocks off there now!"

  "But you said," expostulated Claire helplessly, feeling herselfpropelled as by the hand of fate through the crowd toward the door. "Yousaid you live on One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street."

  "So I do, my dear, so I do! But I've got some businessto transack with a lady livin' in Ninety-fifthStreet--West--Two-hunderd-an'-eighty-five-an'-a-half. Come along.'Step lively,' as my friend, _this nice young man out here on therear platform_, says."