menu_book Chapter 3

Book 1, Chapter 2, Sections 1-3 of Bread. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Wild Shimmering Path. Bread by Charles G. Norris. Book 1, Chapter 2, Sections 1-3.

It took Algenet's young, vigorous determination to carry into effect the plan she had conceived the night of the Armenian dance. She met with an unexpected degree of opposition from her mother, and even from Alice, who was, as a rule, indecisive, and the vaguest of persons in expressing opinions. It was too grave a step. Janie might come to regret it bitterly someday, and it might be too late then to go back. Alice thought perhaps it would be wiser to wait a while, but Janette did not want to wait. The more she

thought about being a wage earner and her own mistress, free to do as she pleased and spend her money as she chose, the more eager she was to be done with school and the supervision of teachers. She felt suddenly grown up and looked enviously at the young women she met hurrying to the elevated station at 93rd Street in the early mornings on their way downtown to business. She noted how they dressed and critically observed those who carried their lunches. She thought about what

she should wear, the kind of hat and shoes she would select, when she was one of them. If it meant skipping her noonday meal entirely, she decided, she would never be guilty of carrying lunch with her. Alice and her intimates at school on a sudden became drearily young to her. She was irritated by their giggling silliness. She chose to treat them all with a certain aloofness and began to regard herself already as a highly paid, valued secretary of the president of a large

corporation. In the evenings she found excuses for visiting Rosa Najarian and eagerly listened to the older girl's account of the business routine of her days. The tuition at the Girard Commercial School for ten weeks' instruction in shorthand and typing was fifty dollars payable in advance, and it was her inability to get this sum that prevented Jeanette from putting her plan immediately into effect. She made herself unhappy, and her mother and sister unhappy,

by worrying about it. Mrs. Sturgis fretted uncomfortably. She alone was aware of an easy way by which the money could be obtained. But since she did not approve of her daughter's purpose, she had no inclination to divulge it. A five thousand dollar paid-up insurance policy from a benevolent society had become hers at the time of her husband's death. It represented a nest egg, the thought of which had always been the greatest comfort to her. In sickness or in case of her

death, the girls would have something. They would not be left absolutely destitute. She had never mentioned this policy to her daughters, always being afraid she might borrow on it, and many a time she had been sorely tempted to do so. With the knowledge of its existence unshared with anyone, Mrs. Sturgis felt herself equal to the temptation, but once taking her children into her confidence, she feared she would soon weakly make inroads upon it. Now as Jeanette became restive and

impatient for want of fifty dollars, her mother grew correspondingly depressed. It was to protect herself against just such wild goose schemes as this, she told herself over and over, that she had refrained from telling her darlings anything about the money. But events unforeseen and from her point of view calamitous robbed her of her fortitude and forced her to play into her daughter's hands. Scarlet fever broke out in the neighborhood. An epidemic swept the Upper West Side. The

Wednesday and Saturday lessons, all of them, had to be discontinued. Miss Lowborough's school closed its doors, Mrs. Sturgis found some music to copy, but the money she earned in this way was far short of the meager income upon which she and her daughters had depended. The days stretched into weeks, and still new cases were reported in the district. The time came when there was actual want in the little household, literally no money with which to buy food, and no further credit to

be had among the tradespeople. Jeanette applied for and secured the promise of a job in a small upholsterer's shop in the neighborhood at six dollars a week, and in the face of her firm resolution to accept the offer and go to work on the following Monday morning, Mrs. Sturgis confessed her secret. As she had foreseen, Jeanette had little difficulty in persuading her, since now she would be compelled to borrow on her store to make the amount of her loan fifty dollars

additional. Why, Mama, I'll be earning that much a month in ten weeks, and I can pay it back to you in no time. I know, I know, dearie, but I just hate to do it. Eventually she gave way before her daughter's flood of arguments. It was what she had feared ever since Ralph died. There would be no stopping now the inroads upon her little capital. She saw the beginning of the end, but Jeanette went triumphantly to school. After the first few days while she felt herself

conspicuous as a new pupil, she began to enjoy herself immensely. The studies fascinated her, Hers was an alert mind, and she was unusually intelligent. She had always been regarded as an exceptionally bright student, but she had achieved this reputation with little application. Her schoolwork heretofore had represented merely lessons to her. It had never carried any significance. But now she threw herself, with all the intensity of her nature, upon what seemed to

her a vital business. She realized she had only ten weeks in which to master shorthand and typing, and at the end of that time would come the test of her ability to fill a position as stenographer. She dared not risk the humiliation of failure. Her pride, the strongest element in her makeup, would not permit it. She must work, work, work. She must utilize every hour, every minute of these precious weeks of instruction. The girl knew in her heart that she had many of the qualifications

of a good secretary. She was pretty. She was well-mannered, intelligent, and could speak and write good English. To find ample justification for this estimate, she had but to compare herself with other girls in the school. These, for the most part, were foreign-born. A large percentage were Jewesses, thick-lipped and large-nosed, with heavy black coils of hair worn over ill-disguised rats. Jeanette detected a finer type, but even to these exceptions she felt herself superior.

They chewed gum a great deal, and shrieked over their confidences as they ate their lunches out of cardboard boxes at the noon hour. She could not bring herself to associate with such girls, and forestalled any approach to friendliness on their part by choosing a remote corner to devote the leisure minutes to study. In consequence, she became the butt of much of their silly laughter, and though she winced at these whisperings and jibes, she never betrayed annoyance.

There was a sprinkling of men and boys throughout the school, but the male element was made up of middle-aged dullards and pimply-necked raw youths, none of whom interested her. The weeks fled by, and Jeanette was carried along on an undiminished wave of excitement. Everything she coveted most in the world depended upon her winning a diploma from the school at the end of the ten weeks' instruction. She discovered soon after her enrollment that while this might be physically possible, it was rarely accomplished, and most of her fellow students had been attending the school

for months. A diploma represented to her the measure of success, and as the time grew shorter before she was to take the final examinations, she could hardly sleep from the intensity of her emotions. At home, matters had materially improved. The epidemic was over. Miss Lauberow's school had reopened its doors, and Mrs. Sturgis was again beginning to fill her Wednesdays and Saturdays with lessons. But the problem of finances was still unsolved. There was a loan of $500 now

on the insurance policy, and Jeanette foresaw her mother would not cease to fret and worry over that until it had somehow been paid back. Everything, it seemed to her, depended on her success at school. There was no hope for the little family otherwise. Alice, trusting, complacent little Alice, was not the type who could shoulder any of the burden. Her mother was perceptibly not as strong as she had been. There would always be debts, there would always be worry, there would always

be skimping and self-denial, unless she, Jeanette, got a job and went to work. Weary with fatigue, she would drive herself at her practice on the rented typewriter in the studio every evening until her back flamed with fire and her fingertips grew sore. She made Alice read aloud to her while she filled page after page in her notebook with her hooks and dashes until her sister drooped with sleep. Mrs. Sturgis protested, actually cried a little. The child was killing herself to no

purpose. There wasn't any sense in working so hard. She was wasting her time, and it would end by their having a doctor. Jeanette shook her head and held her peace. But when the reward came, and old Roger Mason, who had been principal of the school for nearly twenty years, sent for her and told her he wanted to congratulate her on the excellent showing she had made, she felt amply compensated. But none of those who eagerly congratulated her,

not even her mother nor Alice, suspected how infinitely harder than mastering her lessons had been what she had endured from the jeering, mimicking girls who had made fun of her through the dreadful ten weeks. But that was all behind her now. She could forget it. She had justified herself, and stood ready to prove to her mother and sister that she could now fill a position as a regular stenographer, could hold it, and moreover bring them material help. She was all eagerness to

begin, frightened at the prospect, yet confident of success. Graduates of the Girard Commercial School ordinarily do not have to wait long for a job. The demand for stenographers was usually in excess of the supply. Little Miss Ingram, down at the school, who had in hand the matter of finding positions for Girard graduates, was interested in obtaining the best that was available for Miss Sturgis, who had made such an excellent record, and Jeanette was thrilled one

morning at receiving a note asking her to report at the school without delay if she wished employment. Miss Ingram handed her an address on Fourth Avenue. It's a publishing house. They publish subscription books, I think. Something of that sort. I don't urge you to take it. Something better may come along, but you can look them over and see how you think you'd like it. They'll pay fifteen. Fifteen a week? Jeanette raised delighted eyes.

Oh, Miss Ingram, do you think I can please them? Do you think they'll give me a chance? Miss Ingram smiled and squeezed Jeanette's arm reassuringly. Of course, my dear, and they'll be delighted with you. You're a great deal better equipped than most of our girls. The Soleil Publishing Company occupied a spacious floor of a tall building on 4th Avenue. Jeanette was deafened by the clatter of typewriters as she stepped out of the elevator.

The loft was filled with long lines of girls, seated at typewriting machines, and at great broad-topped tables piled high with folded circulars. Figures, silhouetted against the distant windows moved to and fro between the aisles. It was a turmoil of noise and confusion. As she stood before the low wooden railing that separated her from it all, trying to adjust her eyes to the kaleidoscope effect of movement and light, a pert young voice

addressed her, Who did you want to see, please? A little Jewess of some fourteen or fifteen years with an elaborate coiffure surmounting her peaked pale face, was eyeing her inquiringly. I called to see about a position as stenographer. Jeanette's voice all but failed her, the words fogged in her throat. Typist or regular steno? Stenographer, I think. Shorthand and transcription. Wasn't that what was wanted?

See, Miss Gibson, first desk over there, end of third aisle. The little girl swung back agate in the railing, screwed up the corners of her mouth, tucked a stray hair into place at the nape of her neck, and with an assumed expression of elaborate boredom, waited for Jeanette to pass through. It took courage to invade that region of bustle and clamor.

Jeanette advanced with faltering step, felt the waters close over her head, and herself engulfed in the whirling tide. Once of it, it did not seem so terrifying. Already her ears were becoming attuned to the rat-a-tat-tatting that hummed in a roar about her, and her eyes accustomed to the flying fingers, the flashing paper, the bobbing heads, and hurrying

figures. Miss Gibson was a placid, gray-haired woman, large-busted and severely dressed in an immaculate shirtwaist that was tucked trimly into a snug belt about her firm, round person. She smiled perfunctorily at the girl as she indicated the chair beside her desk. Jeanette felt her eyes swiftly taking inventory of her. Her interrogations were of the briefest.

She made a note of Jeanette's age, name, and address, and schooling. She then launched into a description of the work. The Soleil Publishing Company sold a great many books by subscription. Secret Memoirs, The Favorites of Great Kings, A Compendium of Mortal Knowledge. Their most recent publication was a 25-volume work entitled A Universal History of the World.

This set of books was supposed to contain a complete historical record of events from the beginning of time, and was composed of excerpts from the writings of great historians, all deftly welded together to make a comprehensive narrative. A tremendous advertising campaign was in progress. All magazines carried full-page advertisements,

and a coupon clipped from a corner of them brought a sample volume by mail for inspection. When these volumes were returned, they were accompanied by an order or a letter giving the reason why none was enclosed. To the latter, a personal reply was immediately written by Mr. Beardsley. Miss Gibson indicated a young man seated by a window some few desks away. He dictated to a core of stenographers and followed up his first letters with others,

each containing an argument in favor of the books. Miss Gibson enunciated this information with a glibness that suggested many previous recitations. When she had finished with disconcerting abruptness, she asked Jeanette if she thought she could do the work. The girl taken aback could only stare blankly. She had no idea whether she could do it or not. She shook her head aimlessly. Miss Gibson frowned. Well, we'll see what you can do, she declared. Miss Rosen, she called, and as a

young Jewess came toward them. She directed, Take Miss, uh, Miss, she glanced at her notes, Sturgis, to the cloakroom, and bring her back here. Jeanette's mind was a confused jumble. They won't kill me. They won't eat me, she found herself thinking. Presently, she stood before Miss Gibson once more. The woman glanced at her and rose. Come this way, they walked toward the young man she had previously indicated. Mr. Beardsley, try this girl out. She comes from the Girard

school, but she has no practical experience. Jeanette looked into a pleasant boy's face. He had an even row of glittering white teeth, a small, quaint mouth that stretched tightly across them when he smiled, blue eyes, and rather unruly stuck-up hair. She wanted to please him. She could please him. He seemed nice. Miss—Miss—I beg pardon. Miss Gibson did not mention the name. Sturgis. There's a vacant table over there. You can have a

Remington or an Underwood, anything you're accustomed to. We have all styles. Miss Flanagan, take charge of Miss Sturgis, will you? A big-boned Irish girl came toward him. She was a slovenly type, but apparently disposed to be friendly. I'll lend you a notebook and pencils till you can draw your own from the stock clerk. You have to make out a requisition for everything you want here. You'll find paper in that drawer,

and that's a Remington if you use one. Jeanette slipped into the straight-back chair and settled with a sense of relief before the flimsy little table on which the typewriter stood. She was eager for a moment's inconspicuousness. This is the kind of stuff he gives you. Miss Flanagan leaned over from behind and offered her several yellow sheets of typewriting. Jeanette took them with a murmured thanks and began to read. Deferred payment plan. Five dollars

will immediately secure this handsome twenty-five volume set. On the first of May, the price of these books, as advertised, must advance, but my subscribing now? She wet her dry lips and glanced at another page. The authenticity of these sources of historical information cannot be doubted. Eliminating the traditions which can hardly be accepted as dependable chronicles, we turn to the Egyptian records which are still extant engraven symbols. She couldn't do it. It

was harder than anything she had ever had in practice. She saw failure confronting her. The Sting of tears pricked her eyes and she pressed her lips tightly together. Blindly, she picked up a stiff bristle brush and began to clean the type of her machine. She slipped in a sheet of paper and, to distract herself, rattled off briskly some of her school exercises.

Those other girls could do it. She saw them glancing at their notes and busily clicking at their machines. They did not seem to be having difficulty. Miss Flanagan, that raw-boned Irish girl with no breeding, no education, no brains. How was it that she managed it? She frowned savagely, and her fingers flew.

Miss Sturgis, young Mr. Beardsley, was smiling at her invitingly. She rose, gathering up her pencils and notebook. Sit down, Miss Sturgis. This work may seem a little difficult to you at first, but you'll soon get on to it. Most of these letters are very alike. There's no particular accuracy required. The idea is to get in closer touch with these people who have written in or required about the books, and we write them personal letters for the effect the direct

message. He went on explaining, amiably, reassuringly. Jeanette thawed under his pleasant manner. Confidence came surging back. She made up her mind she liked this young man. He was considerate. He was kind. He was a gentleman. The idea, of course, is always to have your letters intelligible. If you don't understand what you have written, the person to whom it is addressed won't either. I don't care whether you

get my actual words or not. You're always at liberty to phrase a sentence any way you choose as long as it makes sense. Now let's see. We'll try one. Frank Curry, RFD1 to Peak of Kansas. I'll go slow at first, but if I forget and get going too rapidly, don't hesitate to stop me. Jeanette with her notebook balanced on her knee, bent to her work. Beardsley spoke slowly and distinctly. After the first moments of agonizing despair, she began to catch her breath and

concentrate on the formation of her notes. More than once she was tempted to write a word out longhand. She hesitated over historical, consummation, inaccurate. She had been told at school never to permit herself to do this. Better to fail at first, they had said, than to grow to depend on slipshod ways. The ordeal lasted half an hour. Suppose you try that much, Miss Sturgis, and see how you get along. She rose and gathered up the bundle of letters. Beardsley gave her a

friendly, encouraging smile as she turned away. How pleasant and kind everyone is, Jeanette thought as she made her way back to her little table. But her heart died within her as she began to decipher her notes. Again and again they seemed utterly meaningless. A whole page of them when the curly-cues hooks and dashes looked to her like so many aimless pencil marks. She frowned and bent over her book despairingly, squeezing hard the fingers of her clasped hands together.

What had he said? How had he begun that paragraph? Oh, she hadn't had enough training yet, not enough experience. She couldn't do it. She'd have to go to him and tell him she couldn't do the work. And he had been so kind to her, and she would have to tell capable, friendly Miss Gibson

that a month or two more in school, perhaps, would be wiser before she could attempt to do the work of a regular stenographer. And there were her mother and sister, too. She would have to confess to them as well that she had failed. The thought strangled her. Tears brimmed her eyes. Perhaps you're in trouble? Can I help? A gentle voice from across the narrow aisle addressed her. Jeanette, through blurred vision,

saw a round, white face with kindly sympathetic eyes looking at her. What system do you use? The Munson? That's good. Let me see your notes. Just read as far as you can. His letters are so much alike. I think I can help you. Jeanette winked away the wetness in her eyes and read what she was able. Oh, yes, I know, interrupted this new friend. It goes this way. She flashed a paper into her machine and clicked out with twinkling fingers a dozen lines.

See if that isn't it, said the girl handing her the paper. Jeanette read the typewritten lines and referred to her notes. Yes, it's just the same. Her eyes shone. I'm so much obliged. It seemed to me awfully hard at first. I thought I never could do it. Did you? Jeanette smiled gratefully. Oh, yes, we all had an awful time. He uses such outlandish words.