her living by the sale from shop to shop of Bostrock's Business Boosters.
These were advertising specialties of all sorts, from small, celluloid elephants bearing an inkwell and a shop's name imprinted, to souvenir card cases, calendars, paper monoplanes. More than a score of knickknacks altogether composed the Bostrock "line," with which Marjorie had become acquainted by answering, in person, one of those advertisements of "Experience not essential to make good money selling proved, popular articles; call to-day; draw your pay to-morrow." She had called upon Mr. Bostrock while she still was an inhabitant of the big, protected home in Evanston; and though she gave her name as Conway and her address on Clearedge Street, and though she wore her plainest suit, and gloves and shoes which were not new, Bostrock immediately perceived her station. He was a keen-eyed, quick-talking, snap-judgment little fellow, Herman Bostrock, and not overpolite to the shabby ones in the line ahead of Marjorie who preceded her to the dingy rail of the office and thence on the other side to the seat beside Mr. Bostrock's desk. He did not permit them to sit, but passed them on and out, almost instantly, to the dusty flight of stairs down to Wells Street. But when Marjorie's turn came, he not only asked her to sit down but he himself arose,—a stubby, short-legged figure with patchy gray hair, grayish thin cheeks and loose lips stained with chewing tobacco.
"You mean to do business? You want to stick, if you make good? And you're going to try to make good?" Mr. Bostrock demanded of her, almost without break between his words, without stop between his questions.
When Marjorie assured him that she meant, wanted
