But her Irish
instinct always suffered from restraint and by the time the noon whistle
blew, she was in a state of sullen resentment. The thought of her beloved
Miss Stanley and what she would think of these surroundings brought a
lump into her throat.
"Come on over here," called Mag from a group of girls at the open window.
"Don't you mind what Bean says. He's sore on any girl that won't eat
outen his dirty hand. You 're as smart again as that other kid. I can
tell right off if a girl's got gumption, an' if she's on the straight.
"Chuck that Sunday-school dope," laughed a pretty, red-haired girl named
Gert. "You git her in wrong with Bean, an' I wouldn't give a nickel fer
her chance."
"You ought to know," said Mag, drily.
The talk ran largely to food and clothes, and Nance listened with growing
dismay. It seemed that most of the girls lived in rooming houses and took
their meals out.
"Wisht I had a Hamberger," said Mag. "I ain't had a bite of meat fer a
month. I always buy my shoes with meat money."
"I git my hats with breakfasts," said another girl. "Fourteen breakfasts
makes a dollar-forty. I kin buy a hat fer a dollar-forty-nine that's
swell enough fer anybody."
"I gotta have my breakfast," said Mag. "Four cups of coffee ain't
nothin' to me."
Gert got up and stretched herself impatiently.
"I'm sick an' tired of hearin' you all talk about eatin'. Mag's idea of
Heaven is a place where you spend ten hours makin' money an' two eatin'
it up.
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