miraculously revealed to me as though I had been Haroun-el-Raschid? Had I not merely entered an unpromising telephone booth in the neighborhood and found myself straightway where I had wished to be? Have you need of a wand, of a wishing ring? Who would demand a flying sofa, or exact a cap of Fortunatus?

Then the voice again:

"Well, dearest, let's decide about the dinner now. Shall we? . . . Yes, I really do. . . . No-I don't think a ham would be suitable. I'll tell you, my darling. I'll stop at the butcher's and I'll bring home a chicken!" (A chicken, oh, a chicken!). . . "Yes, I know. They cost a good deal—but of course we can— for Christmas! . . . Oh, well, I'm sure I'd know how to cook it. . . . No, it wouldn't do to boil it. The thing you do is just to make some bread stuffing with a little onion!" (Oh! oh, bread stuffing with a little onion! The blessed souls!). . . "Oh yes! . . . Precious!" he laughed. "Dressed, of course! Without the feathers! Nonsense, precious; don't worry! . . . Well, never mind. She'd be critical anyway! She's like that. She can't help it. . . . Yes. . . . No I don't think so. But promise me, my darling, that you won't worry! It will be all right! Besides-my beloveddo you love me?"

It was as though, suddenly, Aunt Arabel, chicken, bread stuffing, hams, nothing in the world mattered but this.

I raised a reluctant hand to move the receiver hook. It began to seem to me that my legitimate rights ended here. Then I heard his voice, a little pleading, further:

"Oh yes, I do! . . . All the time! . . . I'd give the world! . . . Oh, you know I do! . . . You know I do! No! No! . . . Never! . . . No. precious!"

Most

I stood as one hypnotized. I knew neither their names nor where they lived. I only knew that I, who had been so long seeking romance, had come upon it miraculously where I least looked to

find it, that of itself being romance of no mean order. By the merest chance I had been present, yet invisible, at an intimate loveliness between two hearts calling to each other perfectly across

space.

And the ham and the chicken! Were they not a ham and a chicken of very romance? And she timid and able to cook only the simpler of these two (Ah, you see he was no utilitarian! He had married her for love, not for practicality!), and he willing, valiantly, to attempt cooking the bird himself! Christmas cheer! bread stuffing, and all! And the troubled anticipation of the arid old aunt, sitting like a spiteful fairy at their Christmas dinner board. But supper alone! Mark you that! And their love, all the while, soaring, like a soaring, singing lark!

Then I heard his voice again:

"Yes, I will." (Some commission, no doubt; or was it renewed warning that he must bring home a dressed chicken, undressed of its feathers!) . . . “Noof course! Not for a minute! . . . Yes. . . . No, my soul! . . . Yes. . . No, I won't be long! . . . No, dear! . . . Yes. Good-by. . . . A little chicken! Well, not too little. Maybe three pounds. . . . Yes, my precious, I will. . . . Yes— soon! Good-by, dearest!" (The voice lingered; impossible to give an idea of its quality or its devotion.) . . . "Yes, dearest!"

Not Venice, not Maggiore, not Lugano, nor dawn upon the Matterhorn! I should have sought, you see, in humbler places.

I turned to watch him go, with that fine, free, swinging step of his. I saw his shoulder as he began to come out of the booth. He was not wearing his tweeds to-day. Then, miraculously, he changed, under my very eye, and there emerged under my expectant gaze—his face shining beautifully with an afterglow of inexpressible happiness-not the tall, beautiful young man, but the Penguin-the little tailor! And I knew suddenly that I really had found romance!

'Anything but bein' chambermaid." "What experience have you had in hotel work?"

"None, but lots in private homes. I'd like a job around the kitchen some place."

"Ever try pantry work?"

"Not in a hotel, but lots in private families. I can do that swell!" (What pantry work meant I hadn't the least idea - perhaps washing glasses and washing glasses and silverware.)

He put on his coat and hat and dashed upstairs. He always put on his coat and hat to go upstairs. In a few moments he dashed hurriedly back, followed by another man who, I learned afterward, was an important steward.

He asked me all over again all the questions the first man had asked, and many more. He was in despair and impatient when he found I had not a single letter of recommendation from a single private family I had worked for. I could have written myself an excellent one in a few moments. Could I bring a letter back later in the day?

"Can you fix salads?"
"Sure!"

"You think you could do the job?”
"Sure!"

"Well, you look as if you could. Never mind the letter, but get one to have by you-comes in handy any job you want. Now about pay-I can't pay you what you been used to getting, at least not the first month." (I'd mentioned nothing as to wages.) "Second month maybe more. First month all I can pay you is fifty and your meals. That all right?"

As usual, my joy at landing a job was such that any recompense was acceptable.

"Be back in two hours."

I was back before my two hours were up, anxious to begin. In a corner of the main kitchen the steward turned me over to Bridget, who was to take me here, there, and the other place. By 11.30 A.M., I was back where I started from, only, thanks to aged Bridget and her none too sure leadings, I was clad in a white cap and white all-over aprondress, and had had my lunch. Thereupon the steward escorted me to my own special corner of the world, where, indeed, I was to be monarch of all I surveyed-provided my gaze fell not too far afield.

That particular corner was down one short flight of stairs from the main kitchen into a hustling, bustling, small and compact, often crowded, place where were prepared the breakfasts, lunches, and dinners of those who placed more importance on hurry and less on style than the patrons of the main dining rooms. Our café fed more persons in a

day than the other dining rooms combined. Outside we could seat five hundred at a time, sixty-five at marble counters, the rest at small tables. But our kitchen quarters could have been put in one corner of the spacious, airy upstairs main kitchen.

Through the bustle of scurrying and ordering waiters I was led to a small, shelved-off compartment. Here I was to earn my fifty dollars a month from 1.30 P.M. to 9 F.M. daily except Sunday, with one-half hour off for supper. I was entitled to eat my breakfast and lunch at the hotel as well.

This first day I was to watch for some two hours the girl I was to relieve at 1.30. Her hours were from 6 in the morning to 1.30, which meant she got the brunt of the hard work-all of the breakfast and most of the lunch rush. To me fell the tail end of the lunch rush -up to about 2.15, and dinner, which only occasionally could be spoken of as 'rush" at all.

66

By the time 11.30 came around, I knew what I had to do and could be left to my own devices. To the pantry girl of our café fell various and sundry small jobs. But the end and aim of her life had to be speed.

To the left of my little doorway was a small, deep sink. Directly next to the sink was a very large ice chest. On the side of the ice chest next the sink hung the four soft-boiled egg machines-those fascinating contrivances in which one deposited the eggs, set the notch at two, three, four minutes, according to the desires of the hurried guest without, sank the cup-shaped container in the boiling water, and never gave the matter another thought. At the allotted moment the eggs were hoisted as if by magic from out their boilings. The sink and the protruding ice chest filled the entire left side of my small inclosure. Along the entire right and front was a wide work-shelf. On this shelf at the right stood the electric toasting machine which during busy hours had to be kept going full blast.

In the front corner just next the toaster stood the tray of bread sliced ready to toast, crusts off for dry or buttered toast, crusts on for "club," very thin slices for "toast Melba." Directly in front, and next the bread tray, came the tray filled with little piles of graham and milk crackers, seven in a pile. What an amazing number of folk order graham or milk crackers in a café! It seems unbelievable to one who has always looked upon a place furnishing eatables outside a home as a chance to order somewhat indigestible food prepared entirely differently from what any home could accomplish. Yet I know it to be a fact that people seat themselves at a table or a counter in a more or less stylish café and order things like prunes or rhubarb and graham or milk crackers, and perhaps top off, if they forget themselves so far, with a shredded-wheat biscuit.

Just above the counter holding the bread and crackers was the counter on which were placed the filled orders for the waiters to whisk away. It was but a step from there to my ice box. The orders it was my business to fill were for blackberries, blueberries, prunes, sliced oranges, rhubarb, grapefruit, whole oranges, apples, sliced peaches and bananas, muskmelons, four kinds of cheese. All of these pretty well filled the upper half of the ice chest, if you counted the finished salads I kept just ahead on, say three of each-lettuce and tomato, hearts of lettuce, plain lettuce, and sliced tomatoes. In the lower half stood the pitchers of orange and grape juice, jams and jellies for omelettes to be made down the line, olives, celery, lettuce, cucumbers, a small tub of oranges, and a large bowl of sliced lemons. The lemons, lemons, lemons, I had daily to slice to complete the ice-tea orders! I had also to keep on hand a bowl of American cheese cut the proper size to accompany pie, toast, and soft-boiled eggs and crackers, and a crock of French dressing set in ice. Such was my kingdom, and I ruled alone.

During slack hours it was easy, too

easy. In rush hours you had to keep your head. Six waiters might breeze by in a line not one second apart, each calling an order, "Half a cantaloupe!" "Two orders of buttered toast!" "Combination salad!" (that meant romaine and lettuce leaves, shredded celery, sliced cucumbers, quartered tomatoes, green pepper, watercress, which always had to be made up fresh-none waiting in the ice chest); "Sliced peaches!" (they could never be sliced in advance); "One order orange juice!" "Toast for club!" Then how one's fingers sped!

Between 2 and 2.30 the rush subsided, and that first day I caught my breath and took time to note the lay of the land.

My compartment came first, directly next the dishes. Next me was a wonderful chef with his white cap set on at just the chef angle. He was an artist, with a youngster about fifteen as his assistant. Some day that youngster will be a more wonderful chef than his master and more of an artist. His master, I found out in my slack hours that first afternoon, was French, with little English at his command, though six years in this country. I know less French than he does English, but we got to be good friends over the low partition which separated us. There was nothing impertinent about him. I showed my gratitude for that by coming over in the afternoon and helping him slice hot potatoes for potato salad while my floor got washed. Every day I made him a bow and said, "Bon jour, Monsieur le Bon Chef," which may be no French at all. And every day he made me a bow back and said, "Bon jour" something or other, which I could tell was nice and respectful, but-I can't write it down. Monsieur le Bon Chef made splendid cold works of art in jellies, and-salads which belonged to another realm than my poor tomatoes and lettuce. Also he and his assistant-the assistant was Spanish-made wonder-sandwiches.

At the left of the stairs were five chefs of as many nationalities—Italian, Span

ish, South American, French, Austrian, who filled hot orders; fryers they were, and broilers, and roasters, and such like. Turn the corner and there opposite the Bon Chef and me were first the two cashiers, then my special friends, the Spanish dessert man and the Greek coffee and tea man. That is, they were the main occupants of their long compartment, but during the lunch rush at least six men worked there. Counting the chore persons of various sorts and not counting waiters, we had some thirty-eight working in or for our café— all men but the two fat Porto-Rican glass washers and me.

Bridget, the dear old soul, came down that first afternoon to see how I was getting along. I had cleaned up spick and span after the Spanish woman—and a mess she always managed to leave. The water was out of the egg-boiling machine and that all polished up; the heat turned off in the toasting machine and that wiped off; lemons sliced; celery "Julietted"; and I was peeling a tubful of oranges in the way the steward showed me, to be sliced by Spanish Mary for breakfast next morning.

It was plain to see that down our way everybody's work eased up between 3.30 and 5. Then everyone visited one another, exchanged newspapers, gossiped over counters. We changed stewards at 3. Kelly, the easy-going, jovial (except at times) Irishman, took himself off, and Schmitz, a narrow-shouldered, small, pernickety German-Jew came on for the rest of my time.

At five minutes to five Schmitz graciously told me I might go up to my supper, though the law in the statute books stood five. Everybody upstairs in the main kitchen, as I made my way to the service elevator, spoke kindly and asked, in the accents of at least ten different nationalities, how I liked my job. Hotel folk, male and female, are indeed a friendly lot.

There are, it seems, class distinctions among hotel help. The chefs eat in a dining room of their own. Then, ap

parently next in line, came our dining room. I, as pantry girl, ranked a "second officer." We had round tables seating from eight to ten at a table, table cloths, and cafeteria-style of getting one's food. The chefs were waited upon. In our dining room ate the bell boys, parlor maids, laundry workers, seamstresses, housekeepers, hotel guards and police, the employment man, pantry girls. To reach our dining room we had to pass the large room where the chambermaids ate. They had long bare tables, no cloths, and sat at benches without backs.

As to food, our dining room but reflected the state of mind any and every hotel dining room reflects, from the most begilded and bemirrored down. Some thought the food good, some thought it awful, some thought nothing about it at all, but just sat and ate. One thing at least was certain-there was enough. For dinner there was always soup, two kinds of meat, potatoes, vegetables, dessert, ice tea, milk, or coffee. For supper there was soup again, meat or fish, potatoes, a salad, and dessert, and the same variety of drinkables to choose from.

From 6 to 7.30 was the height of the supper rush. What a variable thing our patrons made of it! Some evenings. there would be a regular run on celery salads, then for four nights not a single order. Camembert cheese would reign. supreme three nights in succession-not another order for the rest of the week. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole of creation sat without, panting for sliced tomatoes. The next night stocked up in advance so as to keep no one waitingnot a human being looked at a tomato.

At eight o'clock only stragglers remained to be fed, and my job was to clear out the ice chest of all but two of each order, send the rest upstairs to the main kitchen, and then start scrubbing house. Schmitz let it be known that one of the failings of her whose place I was now filling, who had been asked to leave the Friday night before the Monday morn

ing I appeared, was that she was not clean enough. At first, a year and a half ago, she was cleanly and upright—that is, he spoke of such uprightness as invariably follows cleanliness. But as time wore on her habits of cleanliness wore off, and there were undoubtedly corners in the ice box where her waning-inenthusiasm fingers failed to reach. But on a night when the New York thermometer ranges up toward the nineties it is a pure and unadulterated joy to labor inside an ice box. I scrubbed and rinsed and wiped until Schmitz almost looked approving. Only it was congenital with Schmitz that he never really showed approval of anything or anybody. Schmitz was the kind who always had to change everything just a little. There would echo down the line an order, "One Swiss cheese, little one" (that referred to me, not the cheese). Schmitz would stroll over from where he was trying to keep busy watching everyone at once, enter the very confines of my compartment, and stand over me while I sliced that Swiss cheese. It was always either too big, in which case he took the knife from my hands and sliced off one-sixteenth of an inch on one end; or too small, in which case Schmitz would endeavor to slice a new piece altogether. The chances were it would end in being even smaller than the slice I cut. In that case, Schmitz would say, "Let it go, anyway.'

But for all that Schmitz deigned not to allow it to be known that my scrubbings found favor in his sight, my own soul approved of me. The shelves and the sink I scrubbed. Then every perishable article in my ice chest or elsewhere got placed upon trays to go upstairs. By this time it was two minutes to nine. Schmitz, always with his hands clasped behind him, except when he was doing over everything I did, said, “You can go

now.

Upstairs among the lockers on the third floor the temperature was like that of a live volcano, only nothing showed any signs of exploding. Fat women who could speak little or no English were here