The

conditions it was the best place. interest would be small, but safe. Certain investments would, of course, bring higher interest, but no woman should try to invest her money unless she had business training, or a very wise, experienced adviser back of her. Then he stopped for a minute, and it seemed hard for him to go on. I did not speak, for I saw that he was thinking something over, and of course I knew better than to interrupt him. At last he said that ordinarily, of course, he never paid any attention to small accounts, but that he liked me very much and wanted to help me, and that if I wished, he would invest my noney for me in a way that would bring in a great deal more interest than the savings bank would pay. And he asked if I under

stood what he meant.

I said I did that he was offering to take entirely too much trouble for a stranger, and that he was just as kind as he could be, but that I couldn't think of letting him do it, and I was sure papa wouldn't want me to. He seemed annoyed all of a sudden, and his manner changed. He asked why I had come if I felt that way, and I began to see how silly it looked to him, for of course he didn't know I was a reporter getting a story on investments for women. I didn't know

what to say or what to do about the money, either, for Mr. Hurd hadn't told me how to meet any offer of that kind.

While I was thinking and hesitating, Mr. Drake sat still and looked at me queerly; the blue sparks in his eyes actually seemed to shoot out at me. They frightened me a little, and without stopping to think any more, I said I was very grateful to him and that I would bring the money to his office the next day. Then I stood up and he stood up, too; and I gave him my hand and told him he was the kindest man I had met in New York-and the next minute I was gasping and struggling and pushing him away with all my strength, and he stumbled and went backward into his big chair, knocking over an inkstand full of ink, which crawled to the edge of his desk in little black streams and fell on his gray clothes.

For a minute he sat staring straight ahead of him and let them fall. Then he brushed his hand across his head and picked up the inkstand and soaked up the ink with a blotter, and finally turned and looked at me. I stared back at him as if I were in a nightI was opposite him and against the wall, with my back to it, and for a moment

mare.

I couldn't move. But now I began to creep toward the door, with my eyes on him. I felt some way that I dared not take them off. As I moved he got up; he was much nearer the door than I was, and though I sprang for it, he reached it first and stood there quietly, holding the knob in his hand. Neither of us had uttered a sound, but now he spoke and his voice was very low and steady.

"Wait a minute," he said. "I want to tell you something you need to know. Then you may go." And he added grimly, "Straighten your hat!"

I put up my hands and straightened it. Still I did not take my eyes off his. His eyes seemed like those of Yawkins and the great snake in my dreams, but as I looked into them they fell.

"For God's sake, child," he said irritably, "don't look at me as if I were an anaconda! Don't you know it was all a trick?" He came up closer to me and gave me his next words eye to eye and very slowly, as if to force me to listen and believe.

"I did that, Miss Iverson," he said, "to show you what happens to beautiful girls in New York when they go into men's offices asking for advice about money. Some one had to do it. I thought the lesson might come better from me than from a younger man."

His words came to me from some place far away. A bit of my bit of Greek came, too something about Homeric laughter. Then in another instant I went to pieces and crumpled up in the big chair, and when he tried to help me I wouldn't let him come near me. But little by little, when I could speak, I told him what I thought of him and men like him, and of what I had gone through since I came to New York, and of how he had made me feel degraded and unclean forever. At first he listened without a word; then he began to ask a few questions.

"So you don't believe me," he said once. "That's too bad. I ought to have thought of that." He even wrung from me at last the thing that was worst of all-the thing I hadn't dared to tell Mrs. Hoppen-the thing I had sworn to myself no one should ever know-the deep-down, paralyzing fear that there must be something wrong in me that brought these things upon me, that perhaps I, too, was to blame. That seemed to stir him in a queer fashion. He put out his hand, as if to push the idea away.

"No," he said emphatically. "No, no! Never think that." He went on more quietly. "That's not it. It's only that you're a lamb among the wolves-a lamb among the wolves. Yes, that's it. That's it."

He seemed to forget me, then to remember me again. "But remember this, child," he went on. "Some men are bad clear through; some are only half bad. Some aren't wolves at all; they'll help to keep you from the others. Don't you get to thinking that every mother's son runs in the pack; and don't forget that it's mighty hard for any of us to believe that you're. as unsophisticated as you seem. You'll get over it. You'll learn how to handle wolves. That's a woman's primer lesson in life. And in the meantime here's something to comfort you. Though you don't know it, you've got a talisman. You've got something in your eyes that will never let them come too close. Now good-by."

It was six o'clock when I got back to the Searchlight office. I had gone down to the Battery to let the clean sea air sweep over me. I had dropped into a little chapel, too, and when I came out the world had righted itself again and I could look my fellow human beings in the eyes. Even Mr. Drake had said it was not my fault and that I had a talisman. I knew now what that talisman was.

Mr. Hurd, still bunched over his desk, was drinking a bottle of ginger ale and eating a sandwich when I entered. Morris, at his own desk, was editing copy. The outer pen, where the rest of us sat, was deserted by everyone except Gibson, who was so busy that he did not look up.

"Got your story?" asked Hurd, looking straight at me for the third time since I had taken my place on his staff. He spoke with his mouth full. "Hello," he added, "What's the matter with your eyes?"

I sat down by his desk and told him. The sandwich dropped from his fingers. His young-old, dimpled face turned white with anger. He waited without a word until I had finished.

"By God, I'll make him sweat for that!" he hissed. "I'll show him up! The old hypocrite! The whited sepulchre! I'll make this town ring with that story. I'll make it too hot to hold him!"

Morris got up, crossed to us, and stood beside him, looking down at him. The bunches on his jaw-bones were very large.

The next May Iverson story, “The Girl in

"What's the use of talking like that, Hurd?" he asked quietly. "You know perfectly well you won't print that story. You don't dare. And you know that you're as much to blame as Drake is for what's happened. When you sent Miss. Iverson out on that assignment you knew just what was coming to her."

Hurd's face went purple. "I didn't," he protested furiously. "I swear I didn't. I thought she'd be able to get to them because she's so pretty. But that's as far as my mind worked on it." He turned to me. "You believe me, don't you?" he asked gently. "Please say you do." I nodded. "Then it's all right," he said. "And I promise you one thing now: I'll never put you up against a proposition like that again."

He picked up his sandwich and dropped the matter from his mind. Morris stood still a minute longer, started to speak, stopped, and at last brought out what he had to say.

"And you won't think every man you meet is a beast, will you, Miss Iverson?" he asked.

I shook my head. I didn't seem to be able to say much. But it seemed queer that both he and Mr. Drake had said almost the same thing.

"Because," said Morris, "in his heart, you know, every man wants to be decent."

I filed that idea for future reference, as the librarians say. Then I asked them the question I had been asking myself for hours. "Do you think Mr. Drake really was teaching me a-a terrible lesson?" I said.

The two men exchanged a look. Each seemed to wait for the other to speak. It was Gibson who answered me. He had opened the door, and was watching us with no sign of his usual wide and cheerful grin.

me.

"The way you tell it," he said, "it's a toss-up. But I'll tell you how it strikes Just to be on the safe side, and whether he lied to you or not, I'd like to give Henry F. Drake the all-firedest licking he ever got in his life."

"You bet," muttered Hurd, through the last mouthful of his sandwich. Mr. Morris didn't say anything, but the bunches on his jaw-bones seemed larger than ever as he turned to his desk.

I looked at them, and in that moment I learned the lesson that follows the primer lesson. At least one thing Mr. Drake had told me was true-All men were not wolves. Gray," will appear in the February issue.

To Editor Good Housekeeper Magazine who are cheaper than coal, because he warms many homes, price 15c.

EAR SIR:-Most recent job of employment I was impeached from was home of Mrs. and Mr. J. W. Humburg, Pondside, N. J. Perhapsly you can tell me why, because I am disabled to understand the customary habits of some households.

Just a few days of yore I apply there in extreme coldness of snow. This Hon. Mrs. Humburg, dark hairs lady of muscular expression, approach to kitchen and

observe me.

"You are a cook?" she ask it. "Yes are!" I say it.

"Then you will be expected to feed the furnace while doing so," she negotiate harshly.

"Must I be an engineer because I am a hired girl?" I requesh.

"I guess supposedly," renig Hon. Mrs., while leading me to inferno of down-cellar where I was introduced to Hon. Furnace. This iron animal, Mr. Editor, lives like a very homely hermit in middle of low darkness. He set there in nest of ashes, with tin snakes growing from his forehead like zinc octopus. His teeth was full of blazes and he would of made a nice idol for Jap

"Do that tell age of Hon. Furnace?" I require educationally.

"No, not!" she snagger.

"That indikate

the number lbs. steam in boiler. You must be careful about that. If Hon. Steam Gag jump above 25 lbs. that will mean Hon. Furnace have got too much steam on his brain and might blow up with Harry Thaw noise. When Hon. Steam Gag get too ambitious, Oh, cool Hon. Furnace with immediate quickness before explode up!"

"A Samurai janitor fears no steam!" I reject proudishly, while folding my elbows over coal shovel.

Mr. Editor, I did not stoke long in this situation of work, but I make very pleasant impression of it. Although I enjoy thumbscorch, ash-eye, and janitorial pain of spine, yet I commence to love Hon. Furnace for his characteristic. I begin to dishcover he are like Hon. Beethoven, famus pianoplayer-he got red-hot soul inside his homely face. It were pleasant to watch him eat $8 worth very hard coal and purr from sweet digestion. It are nice to be healthy. He seem to contain no meanness. When I close his mouth with shovel he forgive that impoliteness. He love to have me comb his ashes with poker.

Pretty soonly, while doing this, I begin to feel like engineers running Lusitania. I decorate my complexion with smudges and imagine how 1000 Newport passengers was on upstairs deck congratulating my intelligence. While thinking thusly I poke more coal into inflamed mouth of Hon. Furnace. Yet I keep my scientific eyesight on Hon. Steam Gag for see he did not overjump 25 lbs., thusly causing mania to explode.

This engineerish work seem so heroic that I grew quite peev about merely housemaidenly work. Yet I was hired to do. So I perform them with disgust.

Hon. Furnace seem more depressed that afternoon p. m., so I sit beside him to shovel nourishment. Hon. Steam Gag say 14, which are very sick temperature. Hon. Furnace look dull-eye like fish, and more I coaled him the less he het. I feed him slight soap-box for light foods, and by 4:11 he smile more pleasanter and commence eating coal. At 5:12 Hon Steam Gag awoke up to taxicab work.

Thusly I left him and go to kitchen for make food for rest of family. But my soul would not get into that kitchen work, Mr. Editor. It were similar to a janitor attempting to be a chef. It might be done, but can it? I almost nearly put shovelful of coal in apple-pie, I was thinking so hard about what would tempt appetite of fur

naces.

Howeverly, I finished fashionable foods. for that Humburg family to eat, to include considerable potatus and canned corn. Hon. Mrs. who went to Trenton for slight shop-buy, arrive back at 6:34 attached to her Husband. I observe that gentleman through door-hinge and notice his dishagreeable Wall Street appearance. He look entirely bear-market. First thing he do when approaching inside was to sneeze while walking to Hon. Radiator and touching him with diamond fingers.

"Huh!" This from him. "Have you employed Hon. Doc Cook for janitor?" "Why so?" This from Hon. Mrs.

"Because he makes North Poles wherever he goes," snib Hon. Mr. I could not assimilate this compliment which might be otherwise.

I brought in dinner-food on tray and set him to table. When Hon. Mr. took chair he looked to me with serious eyesight.

"That are nice-looking niggero boy you employ," he snuggest to Hon. Mrs.

"He are not niggero," she devolve.

"He got that complexion from being attentive to furnace."

"Oh," he snagger. "If he would put more coal in Hon. Furnace and less on that face, perhapsly I should feel less iced."

I could not chide that denaturized man,

yet I thought so.

After dinner-eat he approach to kitchen and say: "Togo," he say with doggish voice, "furnaces are made for heats. Otherwisely we would use ice-boxes, which is just as handsome. Any cook who cannot feed my furnace should be banished for cruelty."

"I understand this knowledge," I report chivalrously.

"Did you permit Hon. Furnace to go out?" "Ah, no, not I did!" This I say. "I watch him entire day and give you my truthful insurance he did not leave that cellar."

"Tonight you must compel him to heat, no matter how desperado you act," he snarrel, departing off with bang-slam.

44

eat him with loudly roar. Hon. Steam Gag jump forwards to 19. Afterwards I poke in oilcloth which blaze resembling July 4 and smell more so. At this sight Hon. Steam Gag leap onward to 21 and that cave where Furnace lived become quite sunstroke. And when I fetched forth excelsiorshave quenched with kerosene, I never observed Hon. Furnace chew more satis

faction. Coal I added in hodd -when-Oh, look!!

Hon. Steam Gag had arrived at 27 and was pointing his reckless finger further up! This could not happen!!! I remember how Hon. Mrs. had cautiously warned me that Hon. Furnace would get steamed brain and explode from dementia. if Hon. Gag surpass 25 lbs. Yet there he was approaching 30 with mean taxi-click!

At hearing such adjectives, angry rages filled my hair with scorn. What is so ungrateful as ingratitude? Nothing!! Had I not sat by sick-bed of Hon. Furnace, feeding him what stumach would hold? Yes! And yet this crude gentleman reproach my firemanship with coolness.

Nextly I become determined. I would compel that heater to a hotter thermometer if I cooked my soul doing so, I declare!

So I ascend down to cellar. Hon. Furnace was still there doing the same. I shook him with considerable peev, but he merely answered by winking his dull coals. Hon. Steam Gag say 18 and act like he was intending to faint away. I have read in novel-book about bravery of engineer who save his ship by burning it up for steam. I shall do similar!

I burst up kitchen table, which should burn nice because covered with happy grease. Hon. Furnace love such foods and

What should heroes do with such circumstances? I thought lightning. Too much fire make too much steam, too much steam make blow-off. Therefore fire must quit at oncely. With rapid coal-scuttle I make outrush to kitchen sink where I fill him with water and make backrush to cellar.

I open mouth of Hon. Furnace, and embracing my elbows, throw water with awful strength. What did that cruel furnace reply then?

WHOOSH!!!***

Out-jump of steam, cooked coal & atmosphere suppress me backwards with such rapidity that I hurricaned through 2 doors and I window, arriving in outside snow-bank on the seat of my stumach.

"What deed have you done now?" scram Hon. Mrs. from topside porch.

"Your furnace just discharged me," I flop back disgustly.

"I congratulate him," she narrate. Then she make earnest close-down to window, so there I sat surrounded by frost.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,

HASHIMURA TOGO.