East St. Louis Daily Journal

SURRENDER
The Story of a Girl Who Dared

This question of whether she ever would see Vey Ardle again, and hear him say, "I don't know your name, or anything about you, but I know I love you," did not disturb Amoura Ainsley on that morning after. Before her tired eyes resolved themselves to sleep in the finish of that momentous day, she had resolved to end her term of service in the factory.

For two hours she indulged herself with the whirring, throbbing machine in a fond farewell; speeding and slowing it: working the forbidden readjustment screws and satisfying her curiosity generally. Then in the mid-morning rest period she approached the foreman.

"I'm leaving today," she said firmly.

That individual frowned his annoyance.

"You oughtta have given us some notice. I'm short-handed as 'tis."

"I'm sorry, but--." She was sure she couldn't go on for another day, or even finish this one.

"That's the way with you gals. You're here today, and gone tomorrow. No sooner than we teach you the trade than you skiddoo. Costs money to teach you the trade. This ain't no free school," he fumed.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, respectfully.

"Well, come around Saturday for your pay."

"But you usually pay off for the preceding week on Monday," Amoura exclaimed, apprehensively.

"Yes, but you're quitting, ain't you?"

"I don't see how that makes any difference, Mr. Lawrence."

On second thought she decided that he probably was trying to hold her until Saturday. But she determined to leave, pay or no pay.

"It's the rule," the foreman shrugged, in a tone of dismissal.

She departed without further ado; she said no goodbyes in the machine room because she had not made any acquaintances there. If she was missed, it was only by Mrs. Benz, upon whom devolved the duty of instructing another beginner into the intricacies of operating the machine.

On the homeward ride she pored over the classified columns of the early editions of afternoon newspapers, without finding one among all the hundreds of advertisements that stirred her interest. But she now possessed the confidence of a veteran of the classified columns, and was not worried by the circumstance of again being one of the army of unemployed.

She did frown however when she assembled her visible finances on the table in her room. When the last, perfectly pressed, bill had been extracted from between the leaves of "The Golden Bough," her "bank" book, she found a total of $18. The rent was due: and she owed the landlady a laundry bill of $1.25. That left $6.75. Of course, there would be a week's pay coming in on Saturday. But she must live for a week on one dollar and twelve cents a day. Taking out carfare, that left less than a dollar a day for food, with no provision for her usual weekly movies, and no money for her emergency purchases.

"Oh, well!" she shrugged.

Enjoying every minute of her freedom, Amoura wandered in Washington Park in the afternoon, watching the birds, "skipping" stones on the placid lagoon, and wishing that she could play tennis. She did not think about the problem of getting a new job until she was walking home in the dusk, when she tried to decide the kind of work she wanted to do. And she thought she would like to try a position in a store, although she had her doubts about being able to sell anybody anything.

When Amoura handed over her rent and the laundry bill, Mrs. Stone had, of course, questions to ask.

"Did you all have the afternoon off at the factory? A holiday?"

"No, I stayed away because I wasn't feeling well."

She decided the real cause of her absence was none of the landlady's business. Besides, Mrs. Stone's eternal inquisitiveness grated on her nerves. She wondered how the other girls ever stood it.

"Poor girl," the woman sympathized, "what seems to be the matter?"

"Oh, just a general woozy feeling."

She turned back to her room, not caring if her abruptness did offend.

"Well, if there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to call on me. I guess what you need is sleep. You girls never get enough sleep. You ought to get to bed before midnight every night, since you have to get up at 6 o'clock in the morning. I tell you, nothing makes as much difference in the way you feel as sleep. Why, if I stay up late at night I'm just dead on my feet the next day. And you growing girls need more sleep than I do..." That was all Amoura heard.

She waited the next morning until the others had gone to avoid going down in the same elevated train with them, for then they could see that she didn't get off at her usual stop. But to her annoyance, she ran into Paula, seemingly delayed on the way, at the elevated station.

They stretched and waved like boughs in the wind at the end of straps and Amoura did not try to inspect the Help Wanted columns of the Tribune and Herald-Examiner. She expected the nudge Paula gave her when the train stopped at the Indiana avenue station.

"Here's where you get off. Goodbye."

"No. I'm going downtown this morning."

Paula waited for her to explain, but got no satisfaction. They were able to get seats now, and Amoura occupied herself with the front pages of the newspapers. Everything she read seemed strange to her, for she had not been keeping up with the news lately. A small item at the bottom of one of the columns attracted her attention:

"OMAHA, Neb.--Wellington Swiftson, son of the packing magnate, went to work in his father's plant here today as a common laborer. He plans to spend a year in lowly positions in the Swiftson enterprises to prepare himself for an executive position."

That was Cicely's brother. She remembered seeing him once, a dark, serious youth, when she was Cicely's room mate at Bryn Mawr. She wondered what Cicely, who had called her an idiot for working in the candy factory, would say now.

Paula, evidently hurt by her companion's indifference, left the train at Congress street, without a goodbye. Amoura got out at the next station, and sat on a bench on the platform, scanning the classified advertisements. There were plenty of Girls Wanted items, but it was ten minutes before she found one that appealed to her.

"MODELS--Girls who know how to wear fine clothes. Must have personality. La Houbierre's."

A clothing model. The idea did not exactly appeal to her, but she was sure it would be an interesting experience. She descended to the street and hurried to the Michigan avenue address. La Houbierre's did not open until 10 she found, and the janitor told her there would be no one about until 9, but she waited.

Before 9 o'clock other girls appeared, all viewing the others and their clothes suspiciously and disdainfully. A yellow-haired grand dame who appeared to be about to burst out of her corset, received the applicants.

"Walk across the room, please. Now turn slowly and smile. Turn the other way. Take off your coats so I can see your arms, and raise your dresses so I can see your legs. Take off your hats. Walk across the room again, please. Slowly turn around as if you were wearing an expensive gown and wanted to show it to best advantage." These were her commands, delivered commandingly.

At the end of half an hour of such maneuverings, she chose three girls and dismissed the others. One of the three was Amoura Ainsley

(To be continued.)

In the next chapter: Tommy Loughley reappears.