'Yes,' said Victoria, too excited to speculate as to the implied tragedy. 'If you like, you can see the manager,' said the girl. 'He's down there.' She pointed to the cellar. 'Thank you so much,' said Victoria, 'it's awfully kind of you.' The fair girl walked to the banisters. 'Mr Stein,' she cried shrilly into the darkness. There was a rumble, a sound like the upsetting of a chair, footsteps on the stairs. A head appeared on a level with the floor. 'Vat is it?' growled a voice. 'New girl; wants to be taken on.' 'Vell, take her on,' growled the voice. 'You are ze 'ead vaitress, gn, you are responsible.' Victoria had just time to see the head, perfectly round, short-haired, white faced, cloven by a turned up black moustache, when it vanished once more. The Germanic 'gn' at the end of the first sentence puzzled her. 'Sulky beast,' murmured the girl. 'Anyhow, that's settled. You know the wages, don't you? Eight bob a week and your lunch and tea.' 'Eight . . .' gasped Victoria. 'But I can't live on that.' 'My, you are a green 'un,' smiled the girl. 'With a face like that you'll make twenty-five bob in tips by the time we've been on for a month.' She looked again at Victoria not unkindly. 'Tips,' said Victoria reflectively. Awful. But after all, what did it matter. 'All right,' she said, 'put me down.' The girl took her name and address. 'Half-past eight sharp on Monday,' she said. ''cos it's opening day. Usual time half-past nine, off at four two days a week. Other days seven. Nine o'clock mid and end.' Victoria stared a little. This was a business woman. 'Sorry,' said the girl, 'must leave you. Got a lot more to do to-day. My name's Laura. It'll have to be Lottie though. Nothing like Lottie to make fellows remember you.' 'Remember you?' asked Victoria puzzled. 'Lord, yes, how you going to make your station if they don't remember you?' said Lottie snappishly. 'You'll learn right enough. You let 'em call you Vic. Tell 'em to. You'll be all right. And get yourself a black business dress. We supply pink caps and aprons; charge you sixpence a week for washing. You get a black openwork blouse, mind you, with short sleeves. Nothing like it to make your station.' 'What's a station?' asked Victoria, more bewildered than ever. 'My, you _are_ a green 'un! A station's your tables. Five you get. We'll cut 'em down when they begin to come in. What you've got to do is to pal up with the fellows; then they'll stick to you, see? Regulars is what you want. The sort that give no trouble 'cos you know their orders right off and leave their twopence like clockwork, see? But never you mind: you'll learn.' Thereupon Lottie tactfully pushed Victoria towards the door.