a brick wall on the outside. Two telephones, both busy. A good-looking young man, fingering papers in a filing cabinet, while he talked over one of the telephones. The lady from the outer office. Another lady, short and brown, like butterscotch, talking over a desk telephone and motioning for Emma Lou to sit down. Blur of high powered electric lights, brighter than daylight. The butterscotch lady hanging up the receiver.
“I’m through with you young man.” Crisp tones. Metal, warm in spite of itself.
“Well, I ain’t through with you.” The fourth person was speaking. Emma Lou had hardly noticed him before. Sullen face. Dull black eyes in watery sockets. The nose flat, the lips thick and pouting. One hand clutching a derby, the other clenched, bearing down on the corner of the desk.
“I have no intention of arguing with you. I've said my say. Go on outside. When a cook’s job comes in, you can have it. That’s all I can do.”
“No, it ain’t all you can do.”
“Well, I'm not going to give you your fee back.”
The lady from the outside office returns to her post. The good-looking young man is at the telephone again.
“Why not, I'm entitled to it.”
“No, you’re not. I send you on a job, the man
