Putnam patriot., 1915-05-21

Some one-probably one of those
Frenchmen whose life job 1t was to
make epigrams-once said that there
are but two kinds of women: Good
women, and bad women. Ever since
then problem playwrights have been
putting that fiction into the mouths of
wronged husbands and building their
"big scene" around it. But don't you
believe it. There are four kinds: Good
women, bad women, good bad women,
and bad good women. And the worst
of these Is the last. This should be
story of all four kinds, and when 1t Is
finished l defy you to discover which
is which.
When the red stuff in the thermome-
ter wakes ambitious, so that fat men
stand, bulging-eyed before it and be-
ginning with the ninety mark count up
with a horrible satisfaction-ninety-
ne-ninety-two-nine nine
ty-fourl by gosh and the cinders are
fltering into your berth, and even the
porter is wandering restlessly up and
down the aisle like a black soul in pur-
gatory and white duck coat, then the
thing to do is to don those mercifully
few garments which the laxity of sleep
ing-car etiquette permits, slip cut be-
tween the green curtains and fare
forth in search of drafts, liquid and
atmospheric.
AT midnight Emma McChesney, in
ured as she was to sleepers and all
their horrors, found her lower eight
unbearable. With the bravery of des-
peration she CROPPED about for her Gin
der-strewn belongings, donned slippers
and kimono, waited until the tortured
porter's footsteps had squeaked their
way to the far end of the car, then
sped up the dim aisle toward the back
platform. She wrenched open the
door, felt the rush of air, drew in
long, grateful, smoke-steam-dust laden
lungful of it, felt the breath of 1t on
spine and chest, sneezed, realized that
she would be the victim of summer
cold next day, and. knowing, cared not.
Great, amt it?" said voice in the
darkness. NAY, reader. A woman's
voice.
Emma McChesney was of the nom
screaming type. But something inside
of her suspended action for the frac-
tion of second. She peered into the
darkness.
"'J' get scared?" inquired the voice
Its owner lurched forward from the
corner in which she had been crouch
ing, into the half-light cast by the
vestibule night-globe.
Even as men judge one another by
a Masonic emblem, an Elk pin, or the
band of a cigar, so do women in sleep
ing-cars weigh each other according to
the rules of the Ancient Order of the
Kimono Seven seconds after Emma
McChesney first beheld the negligee
that stood revealed in the dim light
she had its wearer neatly weighed,
marked, listed, docketed and placed.
The blonde woman cast upon Emma
McChesney an admiring eye.
"Gawd, amt it hot!" che said, go
ciably.
81 wonder" unused Emma McChes-
ney, 'if that porter could be hypno-
tized into making some lemonade-a
pitcherful, with let of ice in it, and
the cold sweat breaking out all over
the glass %
Lemonade" echoed the other, Won
der and amusement in her tone. Are
they still usin' it," She leaned against
the door, swaying with the motion of
the car, and hugging her plump. bare
arms. "Travelin' alone ?" she asked.
"Oh, yes" replied Emma MeChes-
ney, and decided it was time to go in.
Lonesome, amt it, without COM
pany? Coin far?"
I'm accustomed to it. travel on
business, not pleasure. I'm on the
road, representing T. a. Bucks feath-
erIoom petticoatsl"
ION the road! Sellin' goodsi And
thought you was only kid. It's the
way your hairs fixed, / suppose. Say,
that must be a hard life for woman
-buttin' into a mans game like that"
"Oh, 1 suppose any work that takes
a woman out into the world" began
Emma McChesney vaguely, her hand
on the door-knob.
sure" agreed the other. Il ought
to know. The hotels and time tables
alone are enough to kill. Who do you
suppose makes up train schedules?
They don't seem to think no respect
able train ought to leave anywhere be-
fore eleven-ffty p. m, or arrive after
six a. m. We played Ottumwa, Ia,
last night, and here We are tumpin' to
illinois"