Beekman raised his hands in more than mock despair, and got up to go. "Well," he declared, "I don't know what I can do for you. If I got into any scandal, it would punch the last hole in my meal-ticket." Violet, who was becoming accustomed to such replies, smiled kindly. "I don't want you to get into no trouble for me," she said. "I know you don't, and I couldn't be any use if I did. But I'll promise you this: I'll keep my eyes open, and if anything does turn up, I'll be Johnny-on-the-spot, all right." "Thank you," said Violet. "And look here," pursued Beekman, "I know that it's all rot to expect you to walk out of here without friends or a job; I know that, unless you've got one or the other, you're just simply in jail here; but if I can't get you anything, there must be those who can. Why don't you talk to the coal-men, or the gas-inspectors, or--I tell you, I've seen that tow-headed Dutchman who leaves the beer here. He looks straight, and he stops at the door. Why don't you talk to him? He's the sort that would know of a job for--for----" Beekman hesitated, blushing like a schoolboy. "For my sort?" asked Violet. "Maybe he is. Thank you. Anyhow I'll see." And she did see. When Beekman left her, pressing into her hand the last piece of money that he would have for a week, he gave her at the same time so much of hope. Those who seemed rich could not help her; she would appeal to those who were poor. She was up early and in the kitchen the next morning at the hour when she knew the brewery-wagon would stop outside, and she sent the ebon Cassie on an errand to the corner pharmacy. The maid had scarcely closed the door before Violet was summoned to open it to the German of whom Beekman had spoken. Philip had observed well. The brewery's driver, who stood whistling in the areaway, was a short, stocky man with the neck and arms of a gladiator and the round, smiling face of a child. His blue overalls and dark cloth cap accentuated the fairness of his hair, and his round inquiring eyes were alive with continual good-humor. He had just piled a half-dozen cases of beer beside the doorway. Violet, in her crimson kimona, took from the table the money that had been left for him. "Good-morning," she said as she handed him the bills. He accepted the money with his left hand and, with his right, raised his cap from his clustering curls. His lips ceased whistling, half regretfully. "Goot-mornin'," he replied, smiling. "Won't you come in and have a drink?" asked Violet, adopting Rose's form of salutation. "No, t'ank you," the German shook his head. "I neffer trinks nussing bud beer." "Well," said Violet, "we have lots of that now." "Und I neffer trink dot till tinner." There was an awkward pause. The German, not knowing how to leave without seeming rudeness, was shifting his weight from one heavily shod foot to the other. The woman, uncertain how to say the words she wanted to say, remained with her hand upon the knob.