Part 11 (1/2)
”Effie,” he said, in a voice that was as hoa.r.s.e as it was gentle.
”H'm?” said Effie.
”Will you marry me?”
”I shouldn't wonder,” replied Effie, opening her eyes. ”No, don't kiss me. You might catch something. But say, reach up and smooth my hair away from my forehead, will you, and call me a couple of fool names. I don't care how clumsy you are about it. I could stand an awful fuss being made over me, without being spoiled any.”
Three weeks later Effie was back at the store. Her skirt didn't fit in the back, and the little hollow places in her cheeks did not take the customary dash of rouge as well as when they had been plumper. She held a little impromptu reception that extended down as far as the lingeries and up as far as the rugs. The old sparkle came back to Effie's eye.
The old a.s.surance and vigor seemed to return. By the time that Miss Weinstein, of the French lingeries, arrived, breathless, to greet her Effie was herself again.
”Well, if you're not a sight for sore eyes, dearie,” exclaimed Miss Weinstein. ”My goodness, how grand and thin you are! I'd be willing to take a course in typhoid myself, if I thought I could lose twenty-five pounds.”
”I haven't a rag that fits me,” Effie announced proudly.
Miss Weinstein lowered her voice discreetly. ”Dearie, can you come down to my department for a minute? We're going to have a sale on imported lawnjerie blouses, slightly soiled, from nine to eleven to-morrow.
There's one you positively must see. Hand-embroidered, Irish motifs, and eyeleted from soup to nuts, and only eight-fifty.”
”I've got a fine chance of buying hand-made waists, no matter how slightly soiled,” Effie made answer, ”with a doctor and nurse's bill as long as your arm.”
”Oh, run along!” scoffed Miss Weinstein. ”A person would think you had a husband to get a grouch every time you get reckless to the extent of a new waist. You're your own boss. And you know your credit's good.
Honestly, it would be a shame to let this chance slip. You're not getting tight in your old age, are you?”
”N-no,” faltered Effie, ”but----”
”Then come on,” urged Miss Weinstein energetically. ”And be thankful you haven't got a man to raise the d.i.c.kens when the bill comes in.”
”Do you mean that?” asked Effie slowly, fixing Miss Weinstein with a thoughtful eye.
”Surest thing you know. Say, girlie, let's go over to Klein's for lunch this noon. They have pot roast with potato pfannkuchen on Tuesdays, and we can split an order between us.”
”Hold that waist till to-morrow, will you?” said Effie. ”I've made an arrangement with a--friend that might make new clothes impossible just now. But I'm going to wire my party that the arrangement is all off.
I've changed my mind. I ought to get an answer to-morrow. Did you say it was a thirty-six?”
VII
MAYMEYS FROM CUBA
There is nothing new in this. It has all been done before. But tell me, what is new? Does the aspiring and perspiring summer vaudeville artist flatter himself that his stuff is going big? Then does the stout man with the oyster-colored eyelids in the first row, left, turn his bullet head on his fat-creased neck to remark huskily to his companion:
”The hook for him. R-r-r-rotten! That last one was an old Weber'n Fields' gag. They discarded it back in '91. Say, the good ones is all dead, anyhow. Take old Salvini, now, and Dan Rice. Them was actors.
Come on out and have something.”
Does the short-story writer felicitate himself upon having discovered a rare species in humanity's garden? The Blase Reader flips the pages between his fingers, yawns, stretches, and remarks to his wife:
”That's a clean lift from Kipling--or is it Conan Doyle? Anyway, I've read something just like it before. Say, kid, guess what these magazine guys get for a full page ad.? Nix. That's just like a woman. Three thousand straight. Fact.”
To antic.i.p.ate the delver into the past it may be stated that the plot of this one originally appeared in the Eternal Best Seller, under the heading, ”He Asked You For Bread, and Ye Gave Him a Stone.” There may be those who could not have traced my plagiarism to its source.