just opened up by an outfit that had drifted in on the tail of the
boom. They had knocked together a box house, where they lived and
did the cooking, and served the meals in a tent pitched against the
side. That tent was joyful with placards on it calculated to redeem
the world-worn pilgrim from the sinfulness of boarding houses and
pick-me-up hotels. 'Try Mother's Home-Made Biscuits,' 'What's the
Matter with Our Apple Dumplings and Hard Sauce?' 'Hot Cakes and Maple
Syrup Like You Ate When a Boy,' 'Our Fried Chicken Never Was Heard to
Crow'--there was literature doomed to please the digestions of man!
I said to myself that mother's wandering boy should munch there that
night. And so it came to pass. And there is where I contracted my case
of Mame Dugan.

"Old Man Dugan was six feet by one of Indiana loafer, and he spent his
time sitting on his shoulder blades in a rocking-chair in the shanty
memorialising the great corn-crop failure of '96. Ma Dugan did the
cooking, and Mame waited on the table.

"As soon as I saw Mame I knew there was a mistake in the census
reports. There wasn't but one girl in the United States. When you come
to specifications it isn't easy. She was about the size of an angel,
and she had eyes, and ways about her. When you come to the kind of a
girl she was, you'll find a belt of 'em reaching from the Brooklyn
Bridge west as far as the courthouse in Council Bluffs, Ia. They
earn their own living in stores, restaurants, factories, and offices.
They're chummy and honest and free and tender and sassy, and they look
life straight in the eye. They've met man face to face, and discovered
that he's a poor creature. They've dropped to it that the reports in
the Seaside Library about his being a fairy prince lack confirmation.