"Anything?" repeated the tall girl.

"Why, yes. I've got to the point where I can't afford to be particular."

The tall girl laid her hand on Elsie's arm.

"What is your name?"

"Elsie Welcome."

"Where do you live?"

"On South Tenth street."

"You come from down state?"

"How did you know?"

"It's written all over you. What man brought you here?"

The question surprised Elsie and brought back memory of her sorrows. She did not answer. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Come, kid," said the tall girl, cheerfully, "get hold of yourself. Now, listen! You stay away from Mother Lankee. You're hungry, ain't you, dearie? You come with me and we'll get something to eat."

Elsie was too tired to resist and, instinctively, she trusted this tall girl with her a.s.sumption of guardianship. Together they crossed the street and entered the rear room of a saloon. Three men sat near the entrance playing cards. They looked at the two girls, inspecting Elsie narrowly and nodding carelessly at her companion. The girl took seats at a distant table.

"What do you want, Lou?" inquired one of the men, getting up from the table.

"Not you," retorted Lou curtly. "Send one of your waiters here with a plain lemonade, a gla.s.s of milk and some of that beef stew."

"Milk, eh?" said the man, "and lemonade. On the wagon again, Lou?"

"Run along now," returned the girl. "If you keep on asking questions someone is going to tell you lies."

The man went into another room, spoke to someone there and rejoined the card players. In a few moments a negro waiter appeared with the viands Lou had ordered.

Elsie began to eat famishedly. The other girl watched her approvingly.

"Go to it, girlie," she advised. "I know how you feel. I've been hungry myself."

She sipped her lemonade until Elsie had finished. Then, as though it had not been interrupted, she resumed the conversation they had begun in the street.

"The same old game," she said cynically. "You came to Chicago because you loved him. He strung you along--" Her glance fell on Elsie's wedding ring. "You fell for that 'I do take thee' thing. Then he shook you. Is that right, girlie?"

Elsie shook her head. A stupor due to the food and the reaction from her nervous and physical exhaustion came over her. She felt too languid to grapple with the problem of existence.

The tall girl arched her eyebrows in surprise.

"He didn't shake you? Then why--"

"I couldn't do what he wanted me to do," murmured Elsie. She felt her face flushing and she dropped her head. "He wanted me to--to--"

The other interrupted her sharply. "You needn't say it--I know." She gripped the table in sudden anger. "One of these dogs--eh?"

Elsie stared at her blankly. The old sense of forlornness, of being alone and uncared for, returned to her.

"I don't know what you mean," she faltered.

"What was his name?"

"Druce," gasped Elsie.

"Druce, eh?" replied the tall girl, as though the name had opened a whole vista of understanding. "Druce? Well, look out for him, girlie. He'll hound you from one end of the town to the other until he gets you. That's his business."

"He always said he was a dealer in live stock."

The tall girl laughed scornfully. "Live stock!" she jeered. "Did he get away with that? Well, that's what he is--a dealer in human live stock, a trafficker in women, one of the oldest professions in the world--and the dirtiest. Live stock! That's what he calls girls like you and me--cattle!"

For a long moment Elsie sat staring at her companion. The last prop of her faith in the man who had married her was crumbling. She could not give up this last illusion of Druce's faithfulness without a struggle.

The blood flamed to her cheeks and she started to her feet.

"I don't believe it," she cried in anguish.

To her surprise, Lou made no reply. She merely regarded her pityingly.

This was the last blow. Elsie burst into a flood of tears.

"I know you don't believe it," said Lou gently. "It's hard for anyone who is decent to believe that men can fall so low. Why, n.o.body believes it!

The men who run the city government don't believe it, the law makers don't believe it, the vice commission, doesn't believe it. The only people who believe it are the people who, at their own bitter cost, know it--and this girl Mary Randall."

She paused.

"Look at me, kid," she went on. "I was sold for $175. Sold, do you get that? SOLD! And I came high. They buy and sell 'em in this district every day for fifty. Yes, I was prime stock. They brought me up here from Kentucky. Kentucky Lou, price $175--a choice article." She broke off, laughing bitterly, and summoned a waiter.

"Whisky," she said, "and be quick with it."

She waited until the waiter returned without speaking. Then she tossed off the gla.s.s of fiery liquid like a man.

"Now," she said, resuming the conversation abruptly, "let me tell you what you are up against. You can't go home, your pride won't let you. And if you wanted to go home you haven't the money. Druce has turned you loose in this district to starve and when you've starved enough you'll come back to him."

Elsie shook her head.

"Yes, you will, girlie. You don't know it now, but I know it and Druce knows it. And when you come back you'll do as Druce wants you to do, because you'll know that if you don't you'll have to starve again. It's against human nature to starve. You'll go back to him. And when you do and Druce is tired of you he'll sell you for what you are, cattle--his kind of cattle!"

"Oh no!" wailed Elsie. "Not that. Surely in this great city there are places where a friendless girl can find protection!"

Kentucky Lou laughed again but the laugh contained no mirth.

"I thought that too, kid," she said more gently. "And perhaps--perhaps--if you could find the right people and they believed you they might help you.

But they didn't help me. I went to one of these inst.i.tutions that advertise to help friendless girls. Yes, I went to them. I had my baby in my arms. And they began by shooting me full of questions that I'd rather die than answer. And me perishing for a kind word and a slap on the back--just something to keep me fighting to be good. They gave me tracts, and sermons and advice. And then my baby died and I didn't care what happened. I guess I went crazy after that. 'It's h.e.l.l, anyway,' I says, 'so here goes.' And here I am."