"Now, Mame, you know," said the man with assumed pathos, "that it is
only because I'm a poor devil that I don't go kerflop the minute I set
eyes on you. But you wouldn't like to live in boxes, would you? Would
you now?"

"Not till my time comes, and not in boxes, then, less I'm in a railroad
accident," replied the girl, with ghastly jocularity.

"She's got another feller, or _you_ might git her if you've got a stiddy
job," the man said, winking at James with familiarity.

"Just my luck," said James. He looked at the girl, and thought her
pretty and pathetic, with a vulgar, almost tragic, prettiness and
pathos. She was anæmic and painfully thin. Her blouse was puffed out
over her flat chest. She looked worn out with the miserable little
tediums of life, with constant stepping over ant-hills of stupidity and
petty hopelessness. Her work was not, comparatively speaking, arduous,
but the serving of hot coffee and frankfurters to workingmen was not
progressive, and she looked as if her principal diet was the left-overs
of the stock in trade. She seemed to exhale an odor of musty sandwiches
and sausages and muddy coffee.

The man swallowed his second cup in fierce gulps. He glanced at his
Ingersoll watch. "Gee whiz!" said he. "It's time I was off! Good-by,
Mame."

The girl turned her head with a toss, and did not reply. "Good-by,"
James said.