wouldn’t, and then Elise and Roger came in to bring New Year’s greetings, and the conversation took a lighter and merrier turn.
Chapter VII.
Department G
Alone in her own room that same night, Patty thought out her great project. She was not at all doubtful of her success, she was only choosing among the various methods of earning money that occurred to her.
All were easy, and some of them even seemed delightful occupations.
“Father is an angel,” she thought to herself; “a big, splendid angel. He knew I could do my part easily enough, and he only made it a stipulation because he didn’t want to shoulder the whole affair outright. He wanted me to feel I had a hand in it. He’s so tactful and dear. Well, I’ll do my part so well, he’ll have nothing to complain of. Then I’ll get Nan to write to the girl, and invite her here for a few days or a week. Then I rather guess we can gently persuade her to accept the goods the gods provide.”
Considering the matter as settled, Patty went to sleep and dreamed happily of her coming triumphs as a wage-earner.
“Do you go to business to-day, Miss Fairfield?” asked her father, at the breakfast table.
“Yes, Mr. Fairfield. That is, I shall occupy myself with my—with my occupation.”
“Indeed! that is logical, at any rate. Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of said occupation?”
“It would be not only indiscreet, but useless, for I decline to tell. But it is work I shall do at home. I’ve no desire to enter an office. And, you don’t need a stenographer, anyway, do you?”
“No, and if I did, I shouldn’t take you. You’re too young and too self-assured,—not desirable traits in office work.”
“I may get over them both,” said Patty, smiling at him.
“You probably will,” said Nan, “before you’ve succeeded in this ridiculous scheme you’ve undertaken.”
“Now, Nannikins, don’t desert Mr. Micawber in that cruel fashion,” Patty flung back, gaily; “the game’s never out till it’s played out, you know; and this game isn’t even yet begun.”
“You’ll be played out before the game is,” said her father.
“Oh, daddy, I’m ’fraid that’s slang! I am truly ’fraid so!”
“Well, mind now, Puss; you’re not to tire yourself too much. Remember when you ’most worked yourself to death, at your Commencement celebration.”
“Yes, but I’ve had a lot of experience since that. And I’m much weller and stronger.”
“Yes, you’re well; but you’re not of a very strong constitution, and never will be. So remember, and don’t overdo.”
“Not I. I can earn fifteen dollars a week, and more too, I know, without overdoing myself.”
“Good-by, then; I must be off. I’ll hear to-night the report of your first day’s work.”
The family separated, and Patty ran singing away to make her preparations for the campaign.
“What are you doing?” asked Nan, as she went rummaging in the linen closet.
“Nothing naughty,” replied Patty, giggling. “Curb your curiosity, stepmothery, for it won’t be gratified.”
Nan laughed and went away, and Patty proceeded to select certain very pretty embroidered doilies and centrepieces,—two of each.
These she laid carefully in a flat box, which she tied up into a neat parcel. Then she put on her plainest cloth suit, and a small, dark hat, and was ready to start.
“Nan,” she said, looking in at the library door, “what time do you want the motor?”
“Oh, about eleven or twelve. Keep it as long as you like.”
“It’s only ten now. I’ll be back in less than an hour, I’m sure. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” returned Nan. “Good luck to you!”
She thought Patty’s scheme ridiculous, but harmless, for she knew the girl well enough to know she wouldn’t do anything that might lead her into an unpleasant position; but she feared that her boundless enthusiasm would urge her on beyond the bounds of her nervous strength.
Though soundly healthy, Patty was high-strung, and stopped at no amount of exertion to attain a desired end. More than once this nervous energy of hers had caused physical collapse, which was what Nan feared for her now.
But Patty feared nothing for herself, and going out to the waiting motor-car, she gave the chauffeur an address down in the lower part of Broadway.
It was so unusual, that Miller hesitated a moment and then said, deferentially: “This is ’way downtown, Miss Patty; are you sure the number is right?”
“Yes; that’s all right,” she returned, smiling; “go ahead.”
So he went ahead, and after a long ride southward, the car stopped in the crowded mercantile portion of lower Broadway.
Patty got out, and looked a little apprehensively at the unfamiliar surroundings. “Wait for me,” she said to Miller, and then turned determinedly to the door.
Yes, the number was right. There was the sign, “Monongahela Art Embroidery Company,” on the window. Patty opened the big door, and went in.
She had fancied it would be like the shops to which she was accustomed, where polite floor-walkers stepped up and asked her wishes, but it was not at all like that.
It was more like a large warehouse. Partitions that rose only part way to the ceiling divided off small rooms or departments, all of which were piled high with boxes or crates. The aisles between these were narrow, and the whole place was rather dark. Moreover, there seemed to be nobody about.
Patty sat down in a chair and waited a few moments, but no one appeared, so she got up again.
“Here’s where I need my pluck,” she said to herself, not frightened, but wondering at the situation. “I’ll go ahead, but I feel like Alice in Wonderland. I know I’ll fall into a treacle well.”
She traversed half the length of the long building, when she saw a man, writing in one of the small compartments.
He looked up at her, and then, apparently without interest in her presence there, resumed his work.
Patty was a little annoyed at what she thought discourtesy, and said:
“I’ve come to answer your advertisement.”
“Fourth floor,” said the man, indicating the direction by pointing his penholder across the room, but not looking up.
“Thank you,” said Patty, in a tone intended to rebuke his own lack of manners.
But he only went on writing, and she turned to look for the elevator.
She could see none, however, so she walked on, thinking how like a maze was this succession of small rooms and little cross aisles. When she saw another man writing in another coop, she said politely:
“Will you please direct me to the elevator?”
“What?” said the man, looking at her.
Patty repeated her request.
“Ain’t none,” he said. “Want work?”
Though unpolished, he was not rude, and after a moment’s hesitation, Patty said, “Yes, I do.”