arranged it to a nicety in his top pocket. Nobody encored him. The youngest woman kept on grinding. Her fringy hair shook warningly. Zack didn't say a word to anybody, except what he said to himself. He quietly produced a small round mirror. The production was not spectacular. It was devoid of tableaux and red lights—modestly produced, as if for private purposes with which the general public had no concern. Drawing himself back upon the onion sack, he made a detailed inspection of his features. When Zack quit noticing the women, the women began noticing him, especially that shriveled baker-woman who was nearest to his knee. Her wrinkled countenance was no bigger than a midget's, flabby, like a punctured football; and a virtuous antiquity protected her from suspicion.
Zack negligently dropped his hand, and held the mirror where she could view herself. Presently she stopped work; Zack allowed her to take the mirror. Two other crones pounded their dhurra by fits and starts, while the trinket began to pass secretly from hand to hand. The young est woman kept rubbing, grinding, and toiling. Only once she glanced over her shoulder—and was lost. A snake-like arm reached out to her with Zack's shining temptation. In the marvel of her first mirror the eternal savage feminine forgot Top-Knot's warning, forgot everything,
