She took a piece of chicken in her fingers and went into a room across the hall where she played “Annie Rooney” on the piano and sang with her mouth full of food. Two others got up and went out. A blond girl pushed her chair back, lighted a cigarette, and began doing her fingernails. The maid came and whispered to another, who jumped up quickly and disappeared. Julia had finished the chicken and was crunching the bones between her strong white teeth. The last of the tired-looking girls stood up, put her foot on a chair, and ran her arm, elbow deep, into her stocking. She came up with a small roll of bills which she threw across the table to the madam, sullenly. “Thank the Lord that’s over,” she said, and went out. The madam counted the money carefully, bent over, and put both her arms under the table; when she straightened up the money had disappeared. Julia chattered away and ate everything in sight. She wanted to know if I had ever lived in the country, if I could ride a horse, if I had ever caught a fish, if I could “shoot off a revolver.” The dinner was over and I was thinking about my milk bill. After this wonderful hour I hesitated about presenting it to the madam. She may have seen what was in my mind, for she said, “Julia, you have talked so much to this boy that he has forgotten what he came here for.” “I’m not done talking yet, Miss Kate. You know Sunday is my day out, and I’ve made up my mind to have a horseback ride in the country. I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I came here and here is my chance. The kid here can ride, and I’ll take him with me. If you’ll go,” turning to me. I hesitated. “Oh, come on. I’ll pay for the horses and everything, and see that you get back before dark,” she laughed. “All right, I’ll go,” I said. Julia looked at the madam. “Oh, I have no objection, Julia. You’ll be out of mischief for one day and you’re just a couple of kids, anyway.” She took my bill, gave me the money and went out. Julia was hopping around like a sparrow. “Let’s see,” she said. “You be here Sunday morning at, oh, ten o’clock. No, not here, that’s no good. Be at the drug store down on the corner at ten. I’ll meet you there.” I promised to be there and departed. On my way home I passed the police station and pictured in my mind the inferno inside—the big negro swinging his ladle above the snarling, cursing horde of half-starved prisoners in the stinking bowels of the city prison. At Madam Singleton’s my boyish mind had not grasped the greater tragedy. Fresh air, light, meat, drink, and music—that was all I saw there then. But the tired women were prisoners more hopeless than the savage men fighting for food in the jail. The bodily comforts they had at Madam Singleton’s but served to tighten their shackles. Life-timers of society, they were slowly sinking without a straw to grasp at.