hot and pregnant with clashing body smells. The buzzing electric fan, in a corner over the desk, with all its whirring, could not stir up a breeze.
The rear door opened. A slender, light-brown-skinned boy, his high cheekbones decorated with blackheads, his slender form accentuated by a tight fitting jazz suit of the high-waistline, one-button coat, bell-bottom trouser variety, emerged smiling broadly, cap in one hand, a slip of pink paper in the other. He elbowed his way to the outside door and was gone.
“Musta got a job,” somebody commented. “It’s about time,” came from some one else, “he said he’d been sittin’ here a week.”
The rear door opened again and a lady with a youthful brown face and iron-gray hair sauntered in and sat down in the swivel chair before the desk. Immediately all talk in the outer office ceased. An air of anticipation seemed to pervade the room. All eyes were turned toward her.
For a moment she fingered a pack of red index cards, then, as if remembering something, turned around in her chair and called out:
“Mrs. Blake says for all elevator men to stick around.”
There was a shuffling of feet and a settling back into chairs. Noticing this, Emma Lou counted six
