Whereupon the leading lady spoke, desperately:
"Is there a woman around this place? I don't mean dining-room
girls, or the person behind the cigar-counter."
Since falling heir to the brown uniform the lank youth had
heard some strange requests. He had been interviewed by various
ladies in varicolored kimonos relative to liquid refreshment,
laundry and the cost of hiring a horse and rig for a couple of
hours. One had even summoned him to ask if there was a Bible in
the house. But this latest question was a new one. He stared,
leaning against the door and thrusting one hand into the depths of
his very tight breeches pocket.
"Why, there's Pearlie Schultz," he said at last, with a grin.
"Who's she?" The leading lady sat up expectantly.
"Steno."
The expectant figure drooped. "Blonde? And Irish crochet
collar with a black velvet bow on her chest?"
"Who? Pearlie? Naw. You mustn't get Pearlie mixed with the
common or garden variety of stenos. Pearlie is fat, and she wears
specs and she's got a double chin. Her hair is skimpy and she
don't wear no rat. W'y no traveling man has ever tried to flirt
with Pearlie yet. Pearlie's what you'd call a woman, all right.
You wouldn't never make a mistake and think she'd escaped from the
first row in the chorus.
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