Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town
The Speculations of Jefferson Thorpe
It was not until the mining boom, at the time when everybody went simply
crazy over the Cobalt and Porcupine mines of the new silver country near the
Hudson Bay, that Jefferson Thorpe reached what you might call public importance
Of course everybody knew Jeff and his little barber shop that stood just
across the street from Smith's Hotel. Everybody knew him and everybody got
shaved there. From early morning, when the commercial travellers off the 6.30
express got shaved into the resemblance of human beings, there were always
people going in and out of the barber shop.
Mullins, the manager of the Exchange Bank, took his morning shave from Jeff
as a form of resuscitation, with enough wet towels laid on his face to stew him
and with Jeff moving about in the steam, razor in hand, as grave as an operating
Then, as I think I said, Mr. Smith came in every morning and there was a
tremendous outpouring of Florida water and rums, essences and revivers and
renovators, regardless of expense. What with Jeff's white coat and Mr. Smith's
flowered waistcoat and the red geranium in the window and the Florida water and
the double extract of hyacinth, the little shop seemed multi-coloured and
luxurious enough for the annex of a Sultan's harem.
But what I mean is that, till the mining boom, Jefferson Thorpe never
occupied a position of real prominence in Mariposa. You couldn't, for example,
have compared him with a man like Golgotha Gingham, who, as undertaker, stood in
a direct relation to life and death, or to Trelawney, the postmaster, who drew
money from the Federal Government of Canada, and was regarded as virtually a
member of the Dominion Cabinet.
Everybody knew Jeff and liked him, but the odd thing was that till he made
money nobody took any stock in his ideas at all. It was only after he made the
"clean up" that they came to see what a splendid fellow he was. "Level-headed" I
think was the term; indeed in the speech of Mariposa, the highest form of
endowment was to have the head set on horizontally as with a theodolite.
As I say, it was when Jeff made money that they saw how gifted he was, and
when he lost it,—but still, there's no need to go into that. I believe it's
something the same in other places too.
The barber shop, you will remember, stands across the street from Smith's
Hotel, and stares at it face to face.
It is one of those wooden structures—I don't know whether you know them—with
a false front that sticks up above its real height and gives it an air at once
rectangular and imposing. It is a form of architecture much used in Mariposa and
understood to be in keeping with the pretentious and artificial character of
modern business. There is a red, white and blue post in front of the shop and
the shop itself has a large square window out of proportion to its little flat
Painted on the panes of the window is the remains of a legend that once spelt
BARBER SHOP, executed with the flourishes that prevailed in the golden age of
sign painting in Mariposa. Through the window you can see the geraniums in the
window shelf and behind them Jeff Thorpe with his little black scull cap on and
his spectacles drooped upon his nose as he bends forward in the absorption of
As you open the door, it sets in violent agitation a coiled spring up above
and a bell that almost rings. Inside, there are two shaving chairs of the
heavier, or electrocution pattern, with mirrors in front of them and pigeon
holes with individual shaving mugs. There must be ever so many of them, fifteen
or sixteen. It is the current supposition of each of Jeff's customers that
everyone else but himself uses a separate mug. One corner of the shop is
partitioned off and bears the sign: HOT AND COLD BATHS, 50 CENTS. There has been
no bath inside the partition for twenty years—only old newspapers and a mop.
Still, it lends distinction somehow, just as do the faded cardboard signs that
hang against the mirror with the legends: TURKISH SHAMPOO, 75 CENTS, and ROMAN
They said commonly in Mariposa that Jeff made money out of the barber shop.
He may have, and it may have been that that turned his mind to investment. But
it's hard to see how he could. A shave cost five cents, and a hair-cut fifteen
(or the two, if you liked, for a quarter), and at that it is hard to see how he
could make money, even when he had both chairs going and shaved first in one and
then in the other.
You see, in Mariposa, shaving isn't the hurried, perfunctory thing that it is
in the city. A shave is looked upon as a form of physical pleasure and lasts
anywhere from twenty-five minutes to three-quarters of an hour.
In the morning hours, perhaps, there was a semblance of haste about it, but
in the long quiet of the afternoon, as Jeff leaned forward towards the customer,
and talked to him in a soft confidential monotone, like a portrait painter, the
razor would go slower and slower, and pause and stop, move and pause again, till
the shave died away into the mere drowse of conversation.
At such hours, the Mariposa barber shop would become a very Palace of
Slumber, and as you waited your turn in one of the wooden arm-chairs beside the
wall, what with the quiet of the hour, and the low drone of Jeff's conversation,
the buzzing of the flies against the window pane and the measured tick of the
clock above the mirror, your head sank dreaming on your breast, and the Mariposa
Newspacket rustled unheeded on the floor. It makes one drowsy just to think of
The conversation, of course, was the real charm of the place. You see,
Jefferson's forte, or specialty, was information. He could tell you more things
within the compass of a half-hour's shave than you get in days of laborious
research in an encyclopaedia. Where he got it all, I don't know, but I am
inclined to think it came more or less out of the newspapers.
In the city, people never read the newspapers, not really, only little bits
and scraps of them. But in Mariposa it's different. There they read the whole
thing from cover to cover, and they build up on it, in the course of years, a
range of acquirement that would put a college president to the blush. Anybody
who has ever heard Henry Mullins and Peter Glover talk about the future of China
will know just what I mean.
And, of course, the peculiarity of Jeff's conversation was that he could suit
it to his man every time. He had a kind of divination about it. There was a
certain kind of man that Jeff would size up sideways as he stropped the razor,
and in whose ear he would whisper: "I see where Saint Louis has took four
straight games off Chicago,"—and so hold him fascinated to the end.
In the same way he would say to Mr. Smith: "I see where it says that this
'Flying Squirl' run a dead heat for the King's Plate."
To a humble intellect like mine he would explain in full the relations of the
Keesar to the German Rich Dog.
But first and foremost, Jeff's specialty in the way of conversation was
finance and the money market, the huge fortunes that a man with the right kind
of head could make.
I've known Jefferson to pause in his shaving with the razor suspended in the
air as long as five minutes while he described, with his eye half closed,
exactly the kind of a head a man needed in order to make a "haul" or a "clean
up." It was evidently simply a matter of the head, and as far as one could
judge, Jeff's own was the very type required. I don't know just at what time or
how Jefferson first began his speculative enterprises. It was probably in him
from the start. There is no doubt that the very idea of such things as Traction
Stock and Amalgamated Asbestos went to his head: and whenever he spoke of Mr.
Carnegie and Mr. Rockefeller, the yearning tone of his voice made it as soft as
I suppose the most rudimentary form of his speculation was the hens. That was
years ago. He kept them out at the back of his house,—which itself stood up a
grass plot behind and beyond the barber shop,—and in the old days Jeff would
say, with a certain note of pride in his voice, that The Woman had sold as many
as two dozen eggs in a day to the summer visitors.
But what with reading about Amalgamated Asbestos and Consolidated Copper and
all that, the hens began to seem pretty small business, and, in any case, the
idea of two dozen eggs at a cent apiece almost makes one blush. I suppose a good
many of us have felt just as Jeff did about our poor little earnings. Anyway, I
remember Jeff telling me one day that he could take the whole lot of the hens
and sell them off and crack the money into Chicago wheat on margin and turn it
over in twenty-four hours. He did it too. Only somehow when it was turned over
it came upside down on top of the hens.
After that the hen house stood empty and The Woman had to throw away chicken
feed every day, at a dead loss of perhaps a shave and a half. But it made no
difference to Jeff, for his mind had floated away already on the possibilities
of what he called "displacement" mining on the Yukon.
So you can understand that when the mining boom struck Mariposa, Jefferson
Thorpe was in it right from the very start. Why, no wonder; it seemed like the
finger of Providence. Here was this great silver country spread out to north of
us, where people had thought there was only a wilderness. And right at our very
doors! You could see, as I saw, the night express going north every evening; for
all one knew Rockefeller or Carnegie or anyone might be on it! Here was the
wealth of Calcutta, as the Mariposa Newspacket put it, poured out at our very
So no wonder the town went wild! All day in the street you could hear men
talking of veins, and smelters and dips and deposits and faults,—the town hummed
with it like a geology class on examination day. And there were men about the
hotels with mining outfits and theodolites and dunnage bags, and at Smith's bar
they would hand chunks of rock up and down, some of which would run as high as
ten drinks to the pound.
The fever just caught the town and ran through it! Within a fortnight they
put a partition down Robertson's Coal and Wood Office and opened the Mariposa
Mining Exchange, and just about every man on the Main Street started buying
scrip. Then presently young Fizzlechip, who had been teller in Mullins's Bank
and that everybody had thought a worthless jackass before, came back from the
Cobalt country with a fortune, and loafed round in the Mariposa House in English
khaki and a horizontal hat, drunk all the time, and everybody holding him up as
an example of what it was possible to do if you tried.
They all went in. Jim Eliot mortgaged the inside of the drug store and jammed
it into Twin Tamagami. Pete Glover at the hardware store bought Nippewa stock at
thirteen cents and sold it to his brother at seventeen and bought it back in
less than a week at nineteen. They didn't care! They took a chance. Judge
Pepperleigh put the rest of his wife's money into Temiskaming Common, and Lawyer
Macartney got the fever, too, and put every cent that his sister possessed into
And even when young Fizzlechip shot himself in the back room of the Mariposa
House, Mr. Gingham buried him in a casket with silver handles and it was felt
that there was a Monte Carlo touch about the whole thing.
They all went in—or all except Mr. Smith. You see, Mr. Smith had come down
from there, and he knew all about rocks and mining and canoes and the north
country. He knew what it was to eat flour-baked dampers under the lee side of a
canoe propped among the underbrush, and to drink the last drop of whiskey within
fifty miles. Mr. Smith had mighty little use for the north. But what he did do,
was to buy up enough early potatoes to send fifteen carload lots into Cobalt at
a profit of five dollars a bag.
Mr. Smith, I say, hung back. But Jeff Thorpe was in the mining boom right
from the start. He bought in on the Nippewa mine even before the interim
prospectus was out. He took a "block" of 100 shares of Abbitibbi Development at
fourteen cents, and he and Johnson, the livery stablekeeper next door, formed a
syndicate and got a thousand shares of Metagami Lake at 3 1/4 cents and then
"unloaded" them on one of the sausage men at Netley's butcher shop at a clear
cent per cent advance.
Jeff would open the little drawer below the mirror in the barber shop and
show you all kinds and sorts of Cobalt country mining certificates,—blue ones,
pink ones, green ones, with outlandish and fascinating names on them that ran
clear from the Mattawa to the Hudson Bay.
And right from the start he was confident of winning. "There ain't no
difficulty to it," he said, "there's lots of silver up there in that country and
if you buy some here and some there you can't fail to come out somewhere. I
don't say," he used to continue, with the scissors open and ready to cut, "that
some of the greenhorns won't get bit. But if a feller knows the country and
keeps his head level, he can't lose."
Jefferson had looked at so many prospectuses and so many pictures of mines
and pine trees and smelters, that I think he'd forgotten that he'd never been in
the country. Anyway, what's two hundred miles!
To an onlooker it certainly didn't seem so simple. I never knew the meanness,
the trickery, of the mining business, the sheer obstinate determination of the
bigger capitalists not to make money when they might, till I heard the accounts
of Jeff's different mines. Take the case of Corona Jewel. There was a good mine,
simply going to ruin for lack of common sense.
"She ain't been developed," Jeff would say. "There's silver enough in her so
you could dig it out with a shovel. She's full of it. But they won't get at her
and work her."
Then he'd take a look at the pink and blue certificates of the Corona Jewel
and slam the drawer on them in disgust. Worse than that was the Silent Pine,—a
clear case of stupid incompetence! Utter lack of engineering skill was all that
was keeping the Silent Pine from making a fortune for its holders.
"The only trouble with that mine," said Jeff, "is they won't go deep enough.
They followed the vein down to where it kind o' thinned out and then they quit.
If they'd just go right into her good, they'd get it again. She's down there all
But perhaps the meanest case of all was the Northern Star. That always seemed
to me, every time I heard of it, a straight case for the criminal law. The thing
was so evidently a conspiracy.
"I bought her," said Jeff, "at thirty-two, and she stayed right there tight,
like she was stuck. Then a bunch of these fellers in the city started to drive
her down and they got her pushed down to twenty-four, and I held on to her and
they shoved her down to twenty-one. This morning they've got her down to
sixteen, but I don't mean to let go. No, sir."
In another fortnight they shoved her, the same unscrupulous crowd, down to
nine cents, and Jefferson still held on. "They're working her down," he
admitted, "but I'm holding her."
No conflict between vice and virtue was ever grimmer.
"She's at six," said Jeff, "but I've got her. They can't squeeze me."
A few days after that, the same criminal gang had her down further than ever.
"They've got her down to three cents," said Jeff, "but I'm with her. Yes,
sir, they think they can shove her clean off the market, but they can't do it.
I've boughten in Johnson's shares, and the whole of Netley's, and I'll stay with
her till she breaks."
So they shoved and pushed and clawed her down—that unseen nefarious crowd in
the city—and Jeff held on to her and they writhed and twisted at his grip, and
And then—well, that's just the queer thing about the mining business. Why,
sudden as a flash of lightning, it seemed, the news came over the wire to the
Mariposa Newspacket, that they had struck a vein of silver in the Northern Star
as thick as a sidewalk, and that the stock had jumped to seventeen dollars a
share, and even at that you couldn't get it! And Jeff stood there flushed and
half-staggered against the mirror of the little shop, with a bunch of mining
scrip in his hand that was worth forty thousand dollars!
Excitement! It was all over the town in a minutes. They ran off a news extra
at the Mariposa Newspacket, and in less than no time there wasn't standing room
in the barber shop, and over in Smith's Hotel they had three extra barkeepers
working on the lager beer pumps.
They were selling mining shares on the Main Street in Mariposa that afternoon
and people were just clutching for them. Then at night there was a big oyster
supper in Smith's caff, with speeches, and the Mariposa band outside.
And the queer thing was that the very next afternoon was the funeral of young
Fizzlechip, and Dean Drone had to change the whole text of his Sunday sermon at
two days' notice for fear of offending public sentiment.
But I think what Jeff liked best of it all was the sort of public recognition
that it meant. He'd stand there in the shop, hardly bothering to shave, and
explain to the men in the arm-chairs how he held her, and they shoved her, and
he clung to her, and what he'd said to himself—a perfect Iliad—while he was
clinging to her.
The whole thing was in the city papers a few days after with a photograph of
Jeff, taken specially at Ed Moore's studio (upstairs over Netley's). It showed
Jeff sitting among palm trees, as all mining men do, with one hand on his knee,
and a dog, one of those regular mining dogs, at his feet, and a look of piercing
intelligence in his face that would easily account for forty thousand dollars.
I say that the recognition meant a lot to Jeff for its own sake. But no doubt
the fortune meant quite a bit to him too on account of Myra.
Did I mention Myra, Jeff's daughter? Perhaps not. That's the trouble with the
people in Mariposa; they're all so separate and so different—not a bit like the
people in the cities—that unless you hear about them separately and one by one
you can't for a moment understand what they're like.
Myra had golden hair and a Greek face and would come bursting through the
barber shop in a hat at least six inches wider than what they wear in Paris. As
you saw her swinging up the street to the Telephone Exchange in a suit that was
straight out of the Delineator and brown American boots, there was style written
all over her,—the kind of thing that Mariposa recognised and did homage to. And
to see her in the Exchange,—she was one of the four girls that I spoke of,—on
her high stool with a steel cap on,—jabbing the connecting plugs in and out as
if electricity cost nothing—well, all I mean is that you could understand why it
was that the commercial travellers would stand round in the Exchange calling up
all sorts of impossible villages, and waiting about so pleasant and genial!—it
made one realize how naturally good-tempered men are. And then when Myra would
go off duty and Miss Cleghorn, who was sallow, would come on, the commercial men
would be off again like autumn leaves.
It just shows the difference between people. There was Myra who treated
lovers like dogs and would slap them across the face with a banana skin to show
her utter independence. And there was Miss Cleghorn, who was sallow, and who
bought a forty cent Ancient History to improve herself: and yet if she'd hit any
man in Mariposa with a banana skin, he'd have had her arrested for assault.
Mind you, I don't mean that Myra was merely flippant and worthless. Not at
all. She was a girl with any amount of talent. You should have heard her recite
"The Raven," at the Methodist Social! Simply genius! And when she acted Portia
in the Trial Scene of the Merchant of Venice at the High School concert,
everybody in Mariposa admitted that you couldn't have told it from the original.
So, of course, as soon as Jeff made the fortune, Myra had her resignation in
next morning and everybody knew that she was to go to a dramatic school for
three months in the fall and become a leading actress.
But, as I said, the public recognition counted a lot for Jeff. The moment you
begin to get that sort of thing it comes in quickly enough. Brains, you know,
are recognized right away. That was why, of course, within a week from this Jeff
received the first big packet of stuff from the Cuban Land Development Company,
with coloured pictures of Cuba, and fields of bananas, and haciendas and
insurrectos with machetes and Heaven knows what. They heard of him, somehow,—it
wasn't for a modest man like Jefferson to say how. After all, the capitalists of
the world are just one and the same crowd. If you're in it, you're in it, that's
all! Jeff realized why it is that of course men like Carnegie or Rockefeller and
Morgan all know one another. They have to.
For all I know, this Cuban stuff may have been sent from Morgan himself. Some
of the people in Mariposa said yes, others said no. There was no certainty.
Anyway, they were fair and straight, this Cuban crowd that wrote to Jeff.
They offered him to come right in and be one of themselves. If a man's got the
brains, you may as well recognize it straight away. Just as well write him to be
a director now as wait and hesitate till he forces his way into it.
Anyhow, they didn't hesitate, these Cuban people that wrote to Jeff from
Cuba—or from a post-office box in New York—it's all the same thing, because Cuba
being so near to New York the mail is all distributed from there. I suppose in
some financial circles they might have been slower, wanted guarantees of some
sort, and so on, but these Cubans, you know, have got a sort of Spanish warmth
of heart that you don't see in business men in America, and that touches you.
No, they asked no guarantee. Just send the money whether by express order or by
bank draft or cheque, they left that entirely to oneself, as a matter between
And they were quite frank about their enterprise—bananas and tobacco in the
plantation district reclaimed from the insurrectos. You could see it all there
in the pictures—tobacco plants and the insurrectos—everything. They made no rash
promises, just admitted straight out that the enterprise might realise 400 per
cent. or might conceivably make less. There was no hint of more.
So within a month, everybody in Mariposa knew that Jeff Thorpe was "in Cuban
lands" and would probably clean up half a million by New Year's. You couldn't
have failed to know it. All round the little shop there were pictures of banana
groves and the harbour of Habana, and Cubans in white suits and scarlet sashes,
smoking cigarettes in the sun and too ignorant to know that you can make four
hundred per cent. by planting a banana tree.
I liked it about Jeff that he didn't stop shaving. He went on just the same.
Even when Johnson, the livery stable man, came in with five hundred dollars and
asked him to see if the Cuban Board of Directors would let him put it in, Jeff
laid it in the drawer and then shaved him for five cents, in the same old way.
Of course, he must have felt proud when, a few days later, he got a letter from
the Cuban people, from New York, accepting the money straight off without a
single question, and without knowing anything more of Johnson except that he was
a friend of Jeff's. They wrote most handsomely. Any friends of Jeff's were
friends of Cuba. All money they might send would be treated just as Jeff's would
One reason, perhaps, why Jeff didn't give up shaving was because it allowed
him to talk about Cuba. You see, everybody knew in Mariposa that Jeff Thorpe had
sold out of Cobalts and had gone into Cuban Renovated Lands—and that spread
round him a kind of halo of wealth and mystery and outlandishness—oh, something
Spanish. Perhaps you've felt it about people that you know. Anyhow, they asked
him about the climate, and yellow fever and what the negroes were like and all
that sort of thing.
"This Cubey, it appears is an island," Jeff would explain. Of course,
everybody knows how easily islands lend themselves to making money,—"and for
fruit, they say it comes up so fast you can't stop it." And then he would pass
into details about the Hash-enders and the resurrectos and technical things like
that till it was thought a wonder how he could know it. Still, it was realized
that a man with money has got to know these things. Look at Morgan and
Rockefeller and all the men that make a pile. They know just as much as Jeff did
about the countries where they make it. It stands to reason.
Did I say that Jeff shaved in the same old way? Not quite. There was
something even dreamier about it now, and a sort of new element in the way Jeff
fell out of his monotone into lapses of thought that I, for one, misunderstood.
I thought that perhaps getting so much money,—well, you know the way it acts on
people in the larger cities. It seemed to spoil one's idea of Jeff that copper
and asbestos and banana lands should form the goal of his thought when, if he
knew it, the little shop and the sunlight of Mariposa was so much better.
In fact, I had perhaps borne him a grudge for what seemed to me his perpetual
interest in the great capitalists. He always had some item out of the paper
"I see where this here Carnegie has give fifty thousand dollars for one of
them observatories," he would say.
And another day he would pause in the course of shaving, and almost whisper:
"Did you ever see this Rockefeller?"
It was only by a sort of accident that I came to know that there was another
side to Jefferson's speculation that no one in Mariposa ever knew, or will ever
I knew it because I went in to see Jeff in his house one night. The house,—I
think I said it,—stood out behind the barber shop. You went out of the back door
of the shop, and through a grass plot with petunias beside it, and the house
stood at the end. You could see the light of the lamp behind the blind, and
through the screen door as you came along. And it was here that Jefferson used
to sit in the evenings when the shop got empty.
There was a round table that The Woman used to lay for supper, and after
supper there used to be a chequered cloth on it and a lamp with a shade. And
beside it Jeff would sit, with his spectacles on and the paper spread out,
reading about Carnegie and Rockefeller. Near him, but away from the table, was
The Woman doing needlework, and Myra, when she wasn't working in the Telephone
Exchange, was there too with her elbows on the table reading Marie Corelli—only
now, of course, after the fortune, she was reading the prospectuses of Dramatic
So this night,—I don't know just what it was in the paper that caused
it,—Jeff laid down what he was reading and started to talk about Carnegie.
"This Carnegie, I bet you, would be worth," said Jeff, closing up his eyes in
calculation, "as much as perhaps two million dollars, if you was to sell him up.
And this Rockefeller and this Morgan, either of them, to sell them up clean,
would be worth another couple of million—"
I may say in parentheses that it was a favourite method in Mariposa if you
wanted to get at the real worth of a man, to imagine him clean sold up, put up
for auction, as it were. It was the only way to test him.
"And now look at 'em," Jeff went on. "They make their money and what do they
do with it? They give it away. And who do they give it to? Why, to those as
don't want it, every time. They give it to these professors and to this research
and that, and do the poor get any of it? Not a cent and never will."
"I tell you, boys," continued Jeff (there were no boys present, but in
Mariposa all really important speeches are addressed to an imaginary audience of
boys)—"I tell you, if I was to make a million out of this Cubey, I'd give it
straight to the poor, yes, sir—divide it up into a hundred lots of a thousand
dollars each and give it to the people that hadn't nothing."
So always after that I knew just what those bananas were being grown for.
Indeed, after that, though Jefferson never spoke of his intentions directly,
he said a number of things that seemed to bear on them. He asked me, for
instance, one day, how many blind people it would take to fill one of these
blind homes and how a feller could get ahold of them. And at another time he
asked whether if a feller advertised for some of these incurables a feller could
get enough of them to make a showing. I know for a fact that he got Nivens, the
lawyer, to draw up a document that was to give an acre of banana land in Cuba to
every idiot in Missinaba county.
But still,—what's the use of talking of what Jeff meant to do? Nobody knows
or cares about it now.
The end of it was bound to come. Even in Mariposa some of the people must
have thought so. Else how was it that Henry Mullins made such a fuss about
selling a draft for forty thousand on New York? And why was it that Mr. Smith
wouldn't pay Billy, the desk clerk, his back wages when he wanted to put it into
Oh yes; some of them must have seen it. And yet when it came it seemed so
quiet,—ever so quiet,—not a bit like the Northern Star mine and the oyster
supper and the Mariposa band. It is strange how quiet these things look, the
other way round.
You remember the Cuban Land frauds in New York and Porforio Gomez shooting
the detective, and him and Maximo Morez getting clear away with two hundred
thousand? No, of course you don't; why, even in the city papers it only filled
an inch or two of type, and anyway the names were hard to remember. That was
Jeff's money—part of it. Mullins got the telegram, from a broker or someone, and
he showed it to Jeff just as he was going up the street with an estate agent to
look at a big empty lot on the hill behind the town—the very place for these
And Jeff went back to the shop so quiet—have you ever seen an animal that is
stricken through, how quiet it seems to move?
Well, that's how he walked.
And since that, though it's quite a little while ago, the shop's open till
eleven every night now, and Jeff is shaving away to pay back that five hundred
that Johnson, the livery man, sent to the Cubans, and—
Pathetic? tut! tut! You don't know Mariposa. Jeff has to work pretty late,
but that's nothing—nothing at all, if you've worked hard all your lifetime. And
Myra is back at the Telephone Exchange—they were glad enough to get her, and she
says now that if there's one thing she hates, it's the stage, and she can't see
how the actresses put up with it.
Anyway, things are not so bad. You see it was just at this time that Mr.
Smith's caff opened, and Mr. Smith came to Jeff's Woman and said he wanted seven
dozen eggs a day, and wanted them handy, and so the hens are back, and more of
them, and they exult so every morning over the eggs they lay that if you wanted
to talk of Rockefeller in the barber shop you couldn't hear his name for the