offices (everybody liked my art-work in Grand Rapids!). But 'twas no
use. Then I took up commercial drawing. I got what looked like a good
job, but the man gave me one week's pay, and that's all I could ever
collect, 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't
know how-much-a-week, in commissions. Something queer must be the matter
with me, I guess, for I never got rid of a single lot, though I walked
my feet off. I've tried writing ads., and I've directed envelopes. I've
read the Wants columns, till it seems as if everybody in the world was
looking for a _job_. But I can't get anything to do. I guess God doesn't
mean me to die of starvation, for you wouldn't believe how little I've
had to eat all summer and fall, and yet I'm almost as strong and hearty
as ever. But lately I haven't been able to make any money at all, not
five cents, so I couldn't pay my board, and they--they told me at the
house where I live, that I'd have to square up to-night, or I couldn't
keep my room any longer. They took my trunk a week ago. I haven't had
anything to wear except these clothes I have on, since, and they're
pretty wet now--and--and--I've nowhere to go, and it _is_ pouring so
hard, 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 herself
propelled as by the hand of fate through the crowd toward the door. "You
said you live on One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street."