bookkeepers. It was a bookkeeper at the laundry that Charley Long
beat up. This other one was when I was working in Hickmeyer's
Cannery. He had soft hands, too. But I quickly got all I wanted
of him. He was . . . well, anyway, he had ideas like your boss.
And I never really did love him, truly and honest, Billy. I felt
from the first that he wasn't just right. And when I was working
in the paper-box factory I thought I loved a clerk in Kahn's
Emporium--you know, on Eleventh and Washington. He was all right.
That was the trouble with him. He was too much all right. He
didn't have any life in him, any go. He wanted to marry me,
though. But somehow I couldn't see it. That shows I didn't love
him. He was narrow-chested and skinny, and his hands were always
cold and fishy. But my! he could dress--just like he came out of
a bandbox. He said he was going to drown himself, and all kinds
of things, but I broke with him just the same.

"And after that . . . well, there isn't any after that. I must have
got particular, I guess, but I didn't see anybody I could love.
It seemed more like a game with the men I met, or a fight. And we
never fought fair on either side. Seemed as if we always had
cards up our sleeves. We weren't honest or outspoken, but instead
it seemed as if we were trying to take advantage of each other.
Charley Long was honest, though. And so was that bank cashier.
And even they made me have the fight feeling harder than ever.
All of them always made me feel I had to take care of myself.
They wouldn't. That was sure."

She stopped and looked with interest at the clean profile of his
face as he watched and guided the homes. He looked at her
inquiringly, and her eyes laughed lazily into his as she