“What made you come to America at all?” said Sally, asking the question which, she felt, any sensible person would have asked at the opening of the conversation. One of his familiar blushes raced over Ginger's face. “Oh, I thought I would. Land of opportunity, you know.” “Have you managed to find any of the opportunities yet?” “Well, I have got a job of sorts, I'm a waiter at a rummy little place on Second Avenue. The salary isn't big, but I'd have wangled enough out of it to pay last week's rent, only they docked me a goodish bit for breaking plates and what not. The fact is, I'm making rather a hash of it.” “Oh, Ginger! You oughtn't to be a waiter!” “That's what the boss seems to think.” “I mean, you ought to be doing something ever so much better.” “But what? You've no notion how well all these blighters here seem to be able to get along without my help. I've tramped all over the place, offering my services, but they all say they'll try to carry on as they are.” Sally reflected. “I know!” “What?” “I'll make Fillmore give you a job. I wonder I didn't think of it before.” “Fillmore?” “My brother. Yes, he'll be able to use you.” “What as?” Sally considered. “As a--as a--oh, as his right-hand man.” “Does he want a right-hand man?” “Sure to. He's a young fellow trying to get along. Sure to want a right-hand man.” “'M yes,” said Ginger reflectively. “Of course, I've never been a right-hand man, you know.” “Oh, you'd pick it up. I'll take you round to him now. He's staying at the Astor.” “There's just one thing,” said Ginger. “What's that?” “I might make a hash of it.” “Heavens, Ginger! There must be something in this world that you wouldn't make a hash of. Don't stand arguing any longer. Are you dry? and clean? Very well, then. Let's be off.” “Right ho.” Ginger took a step towards the door, then paused, rigid, with one leg in the air, as though some spell had been cast upon him. From the passage outside there had sounded a shrill yapping. Ginger looked at Sally. Then he looked--longingly--at the bed. “Don't be such a coward,” said Sally, severely. “Yes, but...” “How much do you owe Mrs. Meecher?” “Round about twelve dollars, I think it is.” “I'll pay her.” Ginger flushed awkwardly. “No, I'm hanged if you will! I mean,” he stammered, “it's frightfully good of you and all that, and I can't tell you how grateful I am, but honestly, I couldn't...” Sally did not press the point. She liked him the better for a rugged independence, which in the days of his impecuniousness her brother Fillmore had never dreamed of exhibiting. “Very well,” she said. “Have it your own way. Proud. That's me all over, Mabel. Ginger!” She broke off sharply. “Pull yourself together. Where is your manly spirit? I'd be ashamed to be such a coward.” “Awfully sorry, but, honestly, that woolly dog...” “Never mind the dog. I'll see you through.”