Evening star., 1918-06-09
EAN little Mollie Finneran had
Just lost her job. It was not
much Of q job, but she was

1t was not for lack OF ambition on
the part Of her father and mother.
They had wasted as little time on her
education as the truant officer had
permitted. They had not pampered
luxuries and rich foods. In fact, they
had almost trained her to the ideal
point of getting along on nothing at
all. But the best they could secure
for her in the way Of employment
was this job as cash girl. She got
three dollars a week. and didn't get
it. Her parents got it.
She was required to carry home the
entire three dollars. From this she
received a modest dole for carfare-
one way-and for lunch. By the lat
ter part of the week, as it usually
befell, her father or mother had spent
the balance at the liquor store, and
Silver omitted the midday meal. But
when Silver could afford a luncheon
it was usually taken at the ice cream
soda fountain, where a mess of sirupy
aniline dye, a pledget Of adulterated
ice cream and a froth of imitation
her insides in a state of nausea that
proved a splendid antidote to appe-
tite.
But Silver was not a success as
cash girl. If she had had food oft
ener, or had not been placed ironically
in a parish of tinware bounded on
one side by a delicatessen depart
ment and on the other by a candy
counter she might have had more
soul to give to her business. The
thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts. and Silver thought how
Sometimes the mirage of things to
eat would so fascinate her that she
became a wax figure Of meditation,
deaf to the loud tappings of pencils
on showcases and the reiterated walls
of Messenger! Mess'n'jah! Messun-
jurrr"
For weeks the saleswomen scolded
her, and the aisle managers yanked
her by the ear out of her dreams.
Then the slack season arrived and
they asked for her resignation-of-
fered her her portfolio.
She accepted her exile with fine
pride. Her language was not SO
graceful as Rosalind's 'Banished!
What's banished, but set freeT' But
its spirit was the same.
I'm TONED down, am II" she
sneered. well. it's bum joint any
way anu oseo op LOO much u INC
time"
She accepted the pay envelope with
disdain, and promised to give 1t to
the poor.
She made a good exit, but once out
side she felt as crushed as IL the
building had fallen over on her.
She wondered what her family would
do now without her three dollars.
and how she would kill time in the
streets or in the miserabler
top floor back. She feared a beating,
many beatings. and resolved not to
go home at all.
Even as she planned revolt her feet,
like team of old horses, turned
aside at bakery window where she
always paused as before a roadside
altar. If only she had some money
of her very own! If only she could
squander even a dime on doughnuts!
She felt that she could do desperate
she do for money enough to evoke
that musical cry. Brown the wheats;
draw one"
A young reporter hurrying down the
ugly street paused to gaze at her. He
had written verses in college and he
still poetized everything, to the great
wear and tear of blue pencils at the
copy desk. So now he saw a prophetic
wistfulness in Sliver's attitude, and
IN her overgrown eyes the darkling
OF a love dawn.
As he made of on his errand he
stopped short again, for he noted that
the girl was observed by an elderly
man whose swart and villainous mien
was struck across with a black mus
tache and buried in a perfidious fur
overcoat- This evident scoundreI
halted and stared at the girl with ap-
proval.
But the swart knare moved on with
out speaking, and the reporter went his
way, too, looking back and wondering
what dreams Of love they were that
must be thrilling the shabby little, Thin
little. quaint little creature poised in
leverie before the bakers window. And
so he passed out of Sliver's life. But
the swart man came back
The reporter had thought that Silver
was musing upon love. The swart man
had thought she stared enviously at the
lithograph in the window This pictured
Carl Bruni's Flying Swallow" sex
tet OF girls appearing in a cheap vaude-
Vile theater near at hand.
But Silver was meditating neither love
nor Autograph. She was musing on a
little squad of eclairs well polished with
counterfeit chocolate, and golden
beach of Apfelkuchen made out of dried
apples. and dark mountain of mock
gingerbread, an Alp of frosted cake,
coms1ae Of bad eggs. and a pseudo
pumpkin pie as large and ruddy as
harvest moon.
At the heart Of each Of us at least one
little mouse gnaws and gnaws and hard
ly ever rests. With some it is remorse,
with others ambition, or love. or jeal-
ousy. or avarice. or grief. With Mollie
Finneran 1t was hunger.
Silver had always been hungry. Never
once in her life had she had enough to
cat. AS far back as she could remember
Silver had known famine and nothing