“Coffee ’n’ rolls!” repeated the dummy, and soon the waiter placed them before her. Of course she had no appetite, as her constitution, being mostly wood, did not require food; but she watched the shop girl, and saw her put the coffee to her mouth and drink it. Therefore the wax lady did the same, and the next instant was surprised to feel the hot liquid trickling out between her wooden ribs. The coffee also blistered her wax lips, and so disagreeable was the experience that she arose and left the restaurant, paying no attention to the demands of the waiter for “20 cents, mum.” Not that she intended to defraud him, but the poor creature had no idea what he meant by “20 cents, mum.” As she came out she met the window trimmer at Floman’s store. The man was rather near-sighted, but seeing something familiar in the lady’s features he politely raised his hat. The wax lady also raised her hat, thinking it the proper thing to do, and the man hurried away with a horrified face. Then a woman touched her arm and said: “Beg pardon, ma’am; but there’s a price-mark hanging on your dress behind.” “Yes, I know,” replied the wax lady, stiffly; “it was originally $20, but it’s been reduced to $19.98.” The woman looked surprised at such indifference and walked on. Some carriages were standing at the edge of the sidewalk, and seeing the dummy hesitate a driver approached her and touched his cap. “Cab, ma’am?” he asked. “No,” said she, misunderstanding him; “I’m wax.” “Oh!” he exclaimed, and looked after her wonderingly. “Here’s yer mornin’ paper!” yelled a newsboy. “Mine, did you say?” she asked. “Sure! Chronicle, ’Quirer, R’public ’n’ ’Spatch! Wot’ll ye ’ave?” “What are they for?” inquired the wax lady, simply. “W’y, ter read, o’ course. All the news, you know.” She shook her head and glanced at a paper. “It looks all speckled and mixed up,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t read.” “Ever ben to school?” asked the boy, becoming interested. “No; what’s school?” she inquired. The boy gave her an indignant look. “Say!” he cried, “ye’r just a dummy, that’s wot ye are!” and ran away to seek a more promising customer. “I wonder that he means,” thought the poor lady. “Am I really different in some way from all the others? I look like them, certainly; and I try to act like them; yet that boy called me a dummy and seemed to think I acted queerly.” This idea worried her a little, but she walked on to the corner, where she noticed a street car stop to let some people on. The wax lady, still determined to do as others did, also boarded the car and sat down quietly in a corner. After riding a few blocks the conductor approached her and said: “Fare, please!” “What’s that?” she inquired, innocently. “Your fare!” said the man, impatiently. She stared at him stupidly, trying to think what he meant. “Come, come!” growled the conductor, “either pay up or get off!”