MINNIE FLYNN
THE brisk autumn wind tilted Minnie Flynn's faded straw hat to a rakish angle. She walked with swift bouncing steps, her taut body showered by the recurrent sweepings blown from the alleyways of the tenement houses. A rippling stream of dust and débris, made bright by spinning bits of colored papers, ran down the gutters to the street corners, where they were sucked into one of those dank, slimy tributaries of the open sea. Minnie, quickening her steps, followed a leaf of tinsel as it rose with the swell of the wind, sought the last ray of sunlight shot between gaunt buildings, spun in gay pirouette, then sank once more into the dust stream, its golden promise lost in the dun and grimy débris.
Minnie veered over toward the shop windows, now blinking squares of light, for dusk was swiftly descending and the shopkeepers hastened to display their wares to the tides of people hurrying homeward. She was a part of the current of dun-colored humanity, buffeted by casual but friendly contacts.
At the corner of Ninth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, two blocks from The Fashion Department Store where Minnie worked, was a saloon. No men were standing around the swinging doors, so she paused before the plate-glass window, a flattering mirror, with incomplete reflection which allowed
