The Sagebrusher: A Story of the West

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER III

  FIFTY-FIFTY

  It was late fall or early winter in the city of Cleveland. An icywind, steel-tipped, came in from the frozen shores of Lake Erie,piercing the streets, dark with soot and fog commingled. It wasevening, and the walks were covered with crowded and hurrying humanbeings seeking their own homes--men done with their office labors,young women from factories and shops. These bent against the bitterwind, some apathetically, some stoutly, some with the vigor of youth,yet others with the slow gait of approaching age.

  Mary Warren and her room-mate, Annie Squires, met at a certain streetcorner, as was their daily wont; the former coming from her place inone of the great department stores, the other from her work in afactory six blocks up the street.

  "'Lo, Mollie," said Annie; and her friend smiled, as she always did attheir chill corner rendezvous. They found some sort of standing roomtogether in a crowded car, swinging on the straps as it screeched itsway around the curves, through the crowded portions of the city. Itwas long before they got seats, three-quarters of an hour, for theylived far out. Ten dollars a week does not give much in the way ofquarters. It might have been guessed that these two were partners,room-mates.

  "Gee! These cars is fierce," said Annie Squires, with a smile and awide glance into the eyes of a young man against whom she had beenflung, although she spoke to her companion.

  Mary Warren made no complaint. Her face, calm and gentle, carriedneither repining nor resignation, but a high and resolute courage. Sheshrank far as she might, like a gentlewoman, from personal contact withother human beings; the little droop beginning at the corners of hermouth gave proof of her weariness, but there was a thoroughbred vigor,a silken-strong fairness about her, which, with the self-respectingerectness in her carriage, rather belied the common garb she wore. Herfrock was that of the sales-woman, her gloves were badly worn, herboots began to show signs of breaking, her hat was of nondescript sort,of small pretensions--yet Mary Warren's attitude, less of wearinessthan of resistance, had something of the ivory-fine gentlewoman aboutit, even here at the end of a rasping winter day.

  Annie Squires was dressed with a trifle more of the pretension whichten dollars a week allows. She carried a sort of rude and frankvitality about her, a healthful color in her face, not wholly uncomely.She was a trifle younger than Mary Warren--the latter might have beenperhaps five and twenty; perhaps a little older, perhaps not quite soold--but none the less seemed if not the more strong, at least the moreself-confident of the two. A great-heart, Annie Squires; out ofnothing, bound for nowhere. Two great-hearts, indeed, these two tiredgirls, going home.

  "Well, the Dutch seems to be having their own troubles now," said Annieafter a time, when at length the two were able to find seats, a trifleto themselves in a corner of the car. "Looks like they might learn howthe war thing goes the other way 'round. Gee! I wish't I was a man!I'd show 'em peace!"

  She went on, passing from one headline to the next of the evening paperwhich they took daily turns in buying. Mary Warren began to grow moregrave of face as she heard the news from the lands where not long agohad swung and raged in their red grapple the great armies of the world.

  Then a sudden remorse came to Annie. She put out a hand to MaryWarren's arm. "Don't mind, Sis," said she. "Plenty more besides yourbrother is gone. Lookit here."

  "He was all I had," said Mary simply, her lips trembling.

  "Yes, I know. But what's up to-night, Mollie? You're still. Anythinggone wrong at the store?" She was looking at her room-mate keenly.This was their regular time for mutual review and for the restoringgossip of the day.

  "Well, you see, Annie, they told me that times were hard now after thewar, and more girls ready to work." Mary Warren only answered after along time. A passenger, sitting near, was just rising to leave the car.

  Annie also said nothing for a time. "It looks bad, Mollie," said she,sagely.

  Mary Warren made no answer beyond nodding bravely, high-headed. Tendollars a week may be an enormous sum, even when countries but now havebeen juggling billions carelessly.

  They were now near the end of their daily journey. Presently theydescended from the car and, bent against the icy wind, made their waycertain blocks toward the door which meant home for them. They clumpedup the stairs of the wooden building to the third floor, and opened thedoor to their room.

  It was cold. There was no fire burning in the stove--they never leftone burning, for they furnished their own fuel; and in the morning,even in the winter time, they rose and dressed in the cold.

  "Never mind, dear," said Annie again, and pushed Mary down into therocking chair as she would have busied herself with the kindling. "Letme, now. I wish't coal wasn't so high. There's times I almost lose mynerve."

  A blue and yellow flame at last began back of the mica-doored stovewhich furnished heat for the room. The girls, too tired and cold totake off their wraps, sat for a time, their hands against the slowlyheating door. Now and again they peered in to see how the fire wasdoing.

  Mary Warren rose and laid aside her street garb. When she turned backagain she still had in her hands the long knitting needles, the ball ofyellowish yarn, the partially knitted garment, which of late had beenso common in America.

  "Aw, Sis, cut it out!" grumbled Annie, and reached to take the knittingaway from her friend. "The war's over, thank God! Give yourself achanct. Get warm first, anyways. You'll ruin your eyes--didn't thedoctor tell you so? You got one bum lamp right now."

  "Worse things than having trouble with your eyes, Annie."

  "Huh! It'll help you a lot to have your eyes go worse, won't it?"

  "But I can't forget. I--I can't seem to forget Dan, my brother."Mary's voice trailed off vaguely. "He's the last kin I had. Well, Iwas all he had, his next of kin, so they sent me his decoration. AndI'm the last of our family--and a woman--and--and not seeing very well.Annie, he was my reliance--and I was his, poor boy, because of histrouble, that made him a half-cripple, though he got into the flyingcorps at last. I'm alone. And, Annie--that was what was the troubleat the store. I'm--it's my _eyes_."

  They both sat for a long time in silence. Her room-mate fidgetedabout, walked away, fiddled with her hair before the dull little mirrorat the dresser. At length she turned.

  "Sis," said she, "it ain't no news. I know, and I've knew it. I gotto talk some sense to you."

  The dark glasses turned her way, unwaveringly, bravely.

  "You're going to lose your job, Sis, as soon as the Christmas rush isover," Annie finished. She saw the sudden shudder which passed throughthe straight figure beside the stove.

  "Oh, I know it's hard, but it's the truth. Now, listen. Your folksare all dead. Your last one, Dan, your brother, is dead, and you gotno one else. It's just as well to face things. What I've got isyours, of course, but how much have we got, together? What chanct hasa girl got? And a blind woman's a beggar, Sis. It's tough. But whatare you going to _do_? Girls is flocking back out of Washington. Thewar factories is closing. There's thousands on the streets."

  "Annie, what do you _mean_?"

  "Oh, now, hush, Sis! Don't look at me that way, even through yourglasses. It hurts. We've just got to face things. You've got tolive. How?"

  "Well, then," said Mary Warren, suddenly rising, her hands to her hotcheeks, "well, then--and what then? I can't be a burden on you--you'vedone more than your half ever since I first had to go to the doctorabout my eyes."

  "Cut all that out, now," said Annie, her eyes ominous. "I done whatyou'd a-done. But one girl can't earn enough for two, at ten per, andbe decent. Go out on the streets and see the boys still in theiruniforms. Every one's got a girl on his arm, and the best lookers,too. What then? As for the love and marriage stuff--well----"

  "As though you didn't know better yourself than to talk the way youdo!" said Mary Warren.

  "I'm different from you, Mollie. I--I ain't so fine. You know why Iliked you? Becaus
e you was different; and I didn't come from much orhave much schooling. I've been to school to you--and you never knewit. I owe you plenty, and you won't understand even that."

  Mary only kissed her, but Annie broke free and went on.

  "When they come to talk about the world going on, and folks marrying,and raising children, after this war is over--you've got to hand it tothem that this duty stuff has got a strong punch behind it. Besides,the kid idea makes a hit with me. But even if I did marry, I don'tknow what a man would say, these times, about my bringing some one elseinto his house. Men is funny."

  "Annie--Annie!" exclaimed Mary Warren once more. "Don't--oh, don't!I'd die before I'd go into your own real home! Of course, I'll not bea burden on you. I'm too proud for that, I hope."

  "Well, dope it out your own way, Sis," said her room-mate, sighing."It ain't true that I want to shake you. I don't. But I'm not talkingabout Mary Warren when she had money her aunt left her--before she lostit in Oil. I'm not talking about Mary Warren when she was eighteen,and pretty as a picture. I ain't even talking about Mary a year ago,wearing dark glasses, but still having a good chanct in the store.What I'm talking about now is Mary Warren down and out, with not eveneyes to see with, and no money back of her, and no place to _go_. Whatare you going to _do_, Sis? that's all. In my case--believe me, if Ilose my chanct at this man, Charlie Dorenwald, I'm going to findanother some time.

  "It's fifty-fifty if either of us, or any girl, would get along allright with a husband if we _could_ get one--it's no cinch. And now,women getting plentier and plentier, and men still scarcer and scarcer,it's sure tough times for a girl that hasn't eyes nor anything to getwork with, or get married with."

  "Annie!" said her companion. "I wish you wouldn't!"

  "Well, I wasn't thinking how I talked, Sis," said Annie, reaching out ahand to pat the white one on the chair arm. "But fifty-fifty, mydear--that's all the bet ever was or will be for a woman, and now herodds is a lot worse, they say, even for the well and strong ones.Maybe part of the trouble with us women was we never looked on thisbusiness of getting married with any kind of halfway business sense.Along comes a man, and we get foolish. Lord! Oughtn't both of us toknow about bargain counters and basement sales?"

  "Well, let's eat, Mary," she concluded, seeing she had no answer. AndMary Warren, broken-hearted, high-headed, silent, turned to theremaining routine of the day.

  Annie busied herself at the little box behind the stove--a box with aflap of white cloth, which served as cupboard. Here she found a coffeepot, a half loaf of bread, some tinned goods, a pair of apples. Sheput the coffee pot to boil upon the little stove, pushing back theornamental acorn which covered the lid at its top. Meantime Mary drewout the little table which served them, spread upon it its white cloth,and laid the knives and forks, scanty enough in their number.

  They ate as was their custom every evening. Not two girls in allCleveland led more frugal lives than these, nor cleaner, in every way.

  "Let me wash the dishes, Sis," said Annie Squires. "You needn't wipethem--no, that's all right to-night. Let me, now."

  "You're fine, Annie, you're fine, that's what you are!" said MaryWarren. "You're the best girl in the world. But we'll make itfifty-fifty while we can. I'm going to do my share."

  "I suppose we'd better do the laundry, too, don't you think?" sheadded. "We don't want the fire to get too low."

  They had used their single wash basin for their dish pan as well, andnow it was impressed to yet another use. Each girl found in her pocketa cheap handkerchief or so. Annie now plunged these in the washbasin's scanty suds, washed them, and, going to the mirror, pasted themagainst the glass, flattening them out so that in the morning theymight be "ironed," as she called it. This done, each girl deliberatelysat down and removed her shoes and stockings. The stockings themselvesnow came in for washing--an alternate daily practice with them bothsince Mary had come hither. They hung the stockings over the back ofthe solitary spare chair, just close enough to the stove to get somewarmth, and not close enough to burn--long experience had taught themthe exact distance.

  They huddled bare-footed closer to the stove, until Annie rose andtiptoed across to get a pair each of cheap straw slippers which restedbelow the bed.

  "Here's yours, Sis," said she. "You just sit still and get warm as youcan before we turn in--it's an awful night, and the fire's beginning topeter out already. I wish't Mr. McAdoo, or whoever it is, 'd see aboutthis coal business. Gee, I hope these things'll get dry beforemorning--there ain't anything in the world any colder than a pair ofwet stockings in the morning! Let's turn in--it'll be warmer, Ibelieve."

  The wind, steel-pointed, bored at the window casings all that night.Degree after degree of frost would have registered in that room hadmeans of registration been present. The two young women huddled closerunder the scanty covering that they might find warmth. Ten dollars aweek. Two great-hearts, neither of them more than a helpless girl.