Saturdays Child | Page 9

knew we ever took 'em home!"
"Well, YOU do!" Miss Murray would retort, reddening resentfully.
"Ah, well," Susan Brown would answer pompously, for Miss Thornton,
"you forget that I'm almost a member of the firm! Me and the Baxters
can do pretty much what we like! I'll fire Brauer to-morrow if he--"
"You shut up, Susan!" Miss Thornton, her rising resentment pricked
like a bubble, would laugh amiably, and the subject of the bill would be
dismissed with a general chuckle.
On this particular afternoon Miss Thornton delayed Susan Brown, with
a significant glance, when the whistle blew at half-past five, and the
girls crowded about the little closet for their wraps.
"S'listen, Susan," said she, with a look full of import. Susan leaned over
Miss Thornton's flat-topped desk so that their heads were close together.
"Listen," said Miss Thornton, in a low tone, "I met George Banks on
the deck this afternoon, see? And I happened to tell him that Miss
Wrenn was going." Miss Thornton glanced cautiously about her, her
voice sank to a low murmur. "Well. And then he says, 'Yes, I knew
that,' he says, 'but do you know who's going to take her place?' 'Miss
Kirk is,' I says, 'and I think it's a dirty shame!'"
"Good for you!" said Susan, grateful for this loyalty.
"Well, I did, Susan. And it is, too! But listen. 'That may be,' he says,
'but what do you know about young Coleman coming down to work in
Front Office!'"
"Peter Coleman!" Susan gasped. This was the most astonishing, the

most exciting news that could possibly have been circulated. Peter
Coleman, nephew and heir of old "J. G." himself, handsome, college-
bred, popular from the most exclusive dowager in society to the
humblest errand boy in his uncle's employ, actually coming down to
Front Office daily, to share the joys and sorrows of the Brauer
dynasty--it was unbelievable, it was glorious! Every girl in the place
knew all about Peter Coleman, his golf record, his blooded terriers, his
appearances in the social columns of the Sunday newspapers! Thorny
remembered, although she did not boast of it, the days when, a little lad
of twelve or fourteen, he had come to his uncle's office with a tutor, or
even with an old, and very proud, nurse, for the occasional visits which
always terminated with the delighted acceptance by Peter of a gold
piece from Uncle Josiah. But Susan only knew him as a man,
twenty-five now, a wonderful and fascinating person to watch, even, in
happy moments, to dream about.
"You know I met him, Thorny," she said now, eager and smiling.
"'S'at so?" Miss Thornton said, politely uninterested.
"Yes, old Baxter introduced me, on a car. But, Thorny, he can't be
coming right down here into this rotten place!" protested Susan.
"He'll have a desk in Brauer's office," Miss Thornton explained. "He is
to learn this branch, and be manager some day. George says that Brauer
is going to buy into the firm."
"Well, for Heaven's sake!" Susan's thoughts flew. "But, Thorny," she
presently submitted, "isn't Peter Coleman in college?"
Miss Thornton looked mysterious, looked regretful.
"I understand old J. G.'s real upset about that," she said discreetly, "but
just what the trouble was, I'm not at liberty to mention. You know what
young men are."
"Sure," said Susan, thoughtfully.

"I don't mean that there was any scandal," Miss Thornton amended
hastily, "but he's more of an athlete than a student, I guess--"
"Sure," Susan agreed again. "And a lot he knows about office work,
NOT," she mused. "I'll bet he gets a good salary?"
"Three hundred and fifty," supplied Miss Thornton.
"Oh, well, that's not so much, considering. He must get that much
allowance, too. What a snap! Thorny, what do you bet the girls all go
crazy about him!"
"All except one. I wouldn't thank you for him."
"All except TWO!" Susan went smiling back to her desk, a little more
excited than she cared to show. She snapped off her light, and swept
pens and blotters into a drawer, pulling open another drawer to get her
purse and gloves. By this time the office was deserted, and Susan could
take her time at the little mirror nailed inside the closet door.
A little cramped, a little chilly, she presently went out into the gusty
September twilight of Front Street. In an hour the wind would die away.
Now it was sweeping great swirls of dust and chaff into the eyes of
home-going men and women. Susan, like all San Franciscans, was used
to it. She bent her head, sank her hands in her coat-pockets, and walked
fast.
Sometimes she could walk home, but not to-night, in the teeth of this
wind. She got a seat on the "dummy" of