"You don't?" she awkwardly repeated. "No, und so I t'ink--I t'ink I besser be goin'," he hurriedly concluded, and began to turn on his heel. The necessity for quick action roused her. "Wait," she said. And then, as he faced her again in mute wonder, she pressed another bill into his hand. "I want you to help me," she continued. "I want to get a job somewhere, and I don't want Miss Rose to know nothing about it." He looked from the bill to her, still wondering. "So-o?" he responded. "Yes, I want work--some other kind of work--and I thought perhaps you might"--her voice faltered--"might know of some kind." The German's mobile face underwent a quick change. First astonishment and then something not far removed from tears came into his childlike eyes. He crushed the bill in his big red fist. "So-o?" he repeated. "Yes, I--you understand that I must have friends or a job if I am to get away from here, and I thought you might know of something." The German bobbed his curls. "I know dot right vell," he said; "bud I don' know no tshob chust now." Violet's face darkened. "All right," she answered, "I only hoped maybe----" "Look here, miss," the driver cut in with a note of ready feeling in his voice. "You mean all dot?" "All what?" "About geddin' ozzer--aboud a real tshob." "If I had the clothes and a place I'd go this minute." "Vell, den, listen. I've chust god a new blace; I'm goin' to be bar-tender ofer on Segond Avenue, bud I gan send back here if I hear anysing.--Your name?" "Violet--just Miss Violet." "All righd, Miss Violet, I know some more aboud dese blaces like dis dan you maybe t'ink, und I guess maybe I gan do somesing. Nex' Sunday I dake my girl to Coney, und den ve'll dalk sings ofer und ve'll see vhat Katie says." In spite of the promised delay and the growing habit of doubt, Violet's face kindled. "You're good," she said simply, "and I'll trust you." "Oh, I make nussing," replied the German, smiling once more, "bud chust you vait: Katie gan fix it; she gan fix anysing." Before Violet could reply, he had resumed his whistling and run down the alleyway; and she saw that he had tossed back her money on the topmost beercase. VII HOLIDAY That Sunday morning in his single, dark, narrow room, Hermann Hoffmann, the erstwhile driver of a brewery-wagon and the coming Second Avenue barkeeper, arose with the dawn, just as if it had been a workday morning, and set about his elaborate toilet, whistling.