When planning my adventure as Polly Preston, the heroine of my proposed novel, the idea of including domestic service did not occur to me. It was Alice who first caused me to consider such an experience. Telling why she had given up her position in the institution for defective children, she had exclaimed:

“I was engaged as a teacher—the people at college all understood I was to have a teacher’s position. After they got me there they treated me like a servant.”

Thinking over this incident, I wondered how it felt to be treated as a servant. Were well-bred people really so disagreeable to those who served them? How had the servants at home looked upon our household? Was it possible that they found fault with my mother’s treatment of them? If so, in what particular had she failed?

These thoughts called to mind words of the late Franklin B. Sanborn when recounting to me his recollections of Louisa M. Alcott. It was near the end of a perfect October day spent rambling about Concord with Mr. Sanborn as my escort. After spending some time in the School of Philosophy we crossed to the Alcott house and, going up-stairs, took our seats near the window at which Miss Alcott sat when writing “Little Women.” Mr. Sanborn had been talking continuously for several minutes when suddenly he stopped and sat looking thoughtfully out of the window.

“Louisa was wonderful!” he exclaimed, beginning to talk as suddenly as he had stopped. “Yes, she was wonderful. Even to the last she was as ready to experiment as she had been when a young girl.” He paused for an instant, then added in a different tone: “It was that that caused her to try going out as a domestic servant.” He shook his head. “It was a mistake. It was a mistake. Even Louisa couldn’t stand that.”

Now recalling these words, I wondered what it was that even Louisa could not stand. Louisa, the woman whom Mr. Sanborn had described as wonderful, with a heart overflowing with love and human kindliness. What was it that even such a woman could not stand?

Thinking of the women and girls with whom I had worked, I wondered why some of them who appeared so sensible should persist in a struggle to eke out a half-starved existence on such low wages when in domestic service they would get all the comforts of a good home along with wages. All my life I had heard persons, experienced men and women, protesting against this condition. Some of them had gone so far as to assert that there should be laws prohibiting women and girls from working in shops and factories—so forcing them into domestic service.

Once while working in the premium station I attempted to discuss the subject with Nora.

“Not that!” the girl cried, the lines in her forehead contracting into little knots. “I’ll go to the river first.”

Nora was a sensible girl. Why should she feel like that? She helped her mother with the work of their little flat. She washed her own clothes and on Sunday enjoyed cooking dinner. She made many of her own clothes and helped sew for her younger brothers and sisters. She looked forward to the time when the young man to whom she was engaged would earn enough for them to marry. She expected to do her own housework. Then why should she object, and so passionately, to doing housework for which she was paid, to becoming a domestic servant?

The problem haunted me for weeks. During that period every time I looked over the help-wanted columns of certain papers I saw that Sea Foam Hotel was in need of chambermaids and waitresses. Not until I had mailed my letter applying for a position as chambermaid did I mention it to Alice and Mrs. Wilkins.

The expression of horror that sprang into Alice’s eyes was somewhat moderated when the hat-trimmer expressed her satisfaction. She declared it would be the very best thing Alice and I could do—both go to the seashore as hotel help. What could we save on seven and eight dollars a week? She by sitting up evenings to make the little bows used on the inside of men’s stiff hats, in addition to regular nine hours a day six days a week, was only able to get twelve dollars a week.

Then gouging down in her stocking she drew out a roll of bills.

“There!” she said, throwing the money into my lap. “You can count it yourself. I’ve been workin’ since the middle of September—nearly four months—and that’s all I’ve saved. You know how plain I eat and I ain’t spent as much as ten dollars for clothes. Count it.”

Eleven one-dollar bills.

“The only time I can save money,” she went on, “is durin’ the summer I works in the linen-room of a hotel down on Coney Island. The eatin’ is somethin’ grand. Because there ain’t room enough in the hotel for us linen-room girls they allows us three dollars a week extra. Last summer I and another girl got a room for fifteen dollars a month. Besides savin’ our wages we both had somethin’ left of our room money.”

The elaborate prospectus—“Information for Waitresses,” it was headed—described in such glowing terms the many advantages provided for the help of the Sea Foam that Mrs. Wilkins all but threw up her hat-trimming job to go with me.

“It must be grand!” she exclaimed. “To get such good things to eat all the year round as they give us at Coney in the summer. Sure, you’ll get it at that hotel! That place is sweller than Coney. An’ your tips will be bigger, too.”

When I called her attention to the statement that waitresses serving in the side halls received sixteen dollars a month while those serving in the main dining-room only got thirteen she urged me to “sign up” for a side hall job. Side hall she assured me meant a piazza glassed in or a sun parlor.

“Them’s the places real swells like to eat in so they can see things whilst they’re eatin’,” she insisted. “They’ll be further from the kitchen and serving-room, but you’ll get bigger tips. Better ‘sign up’ for the job in the side hall.”

And she talked so much about the grand food supplied by the Coney Island hotel and the grander food that I was sure to get at the Sea Foam that I used to dream about it. For, though Alice and I were not actually starving, we had suppressed our craving for food to such an extent that passing a bake-shop or a restaurant caused an unpleasant sensation. I had gone off seventeen pounds in weight, and Alice was so thin that she didn’t dare get on the scales.

When buying my ticket I learned that the rates quoted by the prospectus had been out of date more than five years. On arriving at Belgrave House, the waitresses’ dormitory, I mentioned to the housekeeper as she registered me that I wished to buy one of the black and one of the white uniforms, also mentioned in the prospectus as being supplied at wholesale prices. She showed considerable embarrassment. Waitresses, she explained, had not liked the cut of the skirts, so there was not a full line on hand.

Those skirts! They were of that period when the hour-glass was the model of feminine grace and elegance. The largest waist measure in stock was nineteen inches. That skirt was forty-four inches long and measured more than six yards around the bottom. Having to go on duty within three hours, I was forced to get something in the way of a uniform. Fortunately, on a pinch, I can cut and sew. Buying a black and a white skirt—dimensions, nineteen by forty-four inches by six yards—I set to work.

After shortening the white skirt and making it wider at the top and narrower at the bottom I rushed to the boardwalk, where I bought a white and a black shirtwaist.

Of course, they cost me three times as much as they were selling for in New York.

The waitresses’ dinner was in progress when I presented myself in my uniform. The assistant housekeeper of Belgrave being at the desk, she conducted me into the large, poorly lighted dining-room and found me a vacant chair at a table for eight. During the meal, when the waitress next me cordially offered her help, I asked if she was stationed in the main dining-room or the side-hall. After saying she was in the main dining-room she shut up like a clam. Every effort to learn where and what the side-hall was met an unmistakable rebuff. Puzzled, and a little bit miffed, I at length said to the waitress who had offered me her assistance:

“You’ll be helping me a lot if you will tell me what to do to get a good station.” Then, including all at table, for I knew they were all listening, I added: “You see, this is my first time in a hotel. I’ve always worked in a private family. Please tell me what to do.”

“Follow along with us when we report for dinner, take your seat in the back of the dining-room, and wait till the head waiter comes,” she told me.

“When the head waiter sees you sitting there he’ll know you’re new and give you a station,” another waitress added. “You just follow along with us.”

Following these directions took me through a covered passageway connecting Belgrave with the Sea Foam. From this we entered a large kitchen which, on my first entrance, seemed thronged with men—black and white. From the kitchen we went down a long flight of unusually steep stairs to a basement passageway in which I got my first glimpse of a time-clock. After punching her time the waitress who had spoken to me at dinner signalled for me to follow her.

“That is the side-hall dining-room,” she told me, indicating a large basement room, rudely equipped with tables and chairs. “It’s where the office help, housekeepers, and linen-room girls eat.” We turned and were going back up the steep stairs when she asked: “Did you notice that the assistant housekeeper of Belgrave is lame?”

“She’s so lame that she can hardly walk,” I exclaimed. “I had to notice it.”

“She served in the side-hall,” the girl told me, still speaking half under her breath. “She fell down these steps with a loaded tray and was in the hospital for more than a year. She’s got her position for life. The Sea Foam has to take care of her.”

From the kitchen we passed through a long serving-room and from that we entered the Sea Foam dining-room. It was a spacious one with rows of very broad windows on four sides, those on three sides giving a splendid view of the ocean. The walls, woodwork, and the slender pillars supporting the ceiling were white enamel. There was a long strip of blue-gray velvet carpet extending from the door the entire length of the room. The steam-radiators, which almost encircled the room, were so brilliantly gilded that I almost imagined them covered with gold-leaf.

At dinner I was stationed at a table of six covers. My guests, I soon learned, were the family of a multimillionaire—wife, three small children, their French governess, and a trained nurse. For the first three meals I worked under the supervision of Anna, a waitress who had been in the Sea Foam for more than six months. One of her first instructions was:

“Don’t pay no attention to her,” indicating the millionaire’s wife. “She’ll work your head off and won’t give you so much as a thank-you.”

This family took their meals in two sections—the children with the governess and nurse, the mother alone. At the first dinner I served without the assistance of Anna the mistress of millions wrote her order as follows:

“Two portions of oysters on the half shell, two portions of olives, two portions of asparagus, two portions of the heart of lettuce without dressing, two portions of fried oysters, eight portions of the heart of celery, six portions of radishes, two portions of apples, two portions crystallized ginger, two cups of hot chocolate, two portions of crackers, two portions of cheese, two portions of squabs, two portions of green peas, two portions of queen fritters, two portions of chocolate ice-cream, and two portions of cake.”

She ordered me to bring it all in on the same tray, as she did not wish to be kept waiting. When one recalls the weight of hotel china and the custom of covering each dish with one a size smaller, the physical impossibility of obeying this order will be understood. Following Anna’s instructions, I “paid no attention” to the millionaire’s wife. It required three trays as heavy as I could lift to get her dinner in to her.

Each time I returned from the kitchen I found her in the act of trying to complain to the assistant head waiter. She grumbled at me because I did not stand behind her chair and put the dishes before her as fast as she wanted them. Of course, she did not eat all she ordered. She only cut a bit from the breast of both squabs, selected the oysters that suited her fancy, nibbled at the innermost hearts of the lettuce and the celery. What her dinner really amounted to was rendering unfit for use food which would have fed six hungry women. The ginger and the fruit she carried away in her work-bag.

Had this woman been coarse or ordinary in appearance I might have felt sorry for her lack of breeding. She was quite the reverse. She was small, with a piquantly pretty face and a pretty plump figure. She knew how to dress—wore beautiful clothes at the right times and painted her cheeks and lips only in the evening. Her hands, though not beautiful in shape, were exquisitely kept; all of her numerous rings were handsome. She seldom wore more than two besides her wedding-ring, and they were always appropriate.

The cause of her ill-breeding was her selfishness. She was determined to get all that was coming to her and could not tolerate any person from whom she could gain nothing. She was a typical daughter of a horse-leech—however much she had she must still cry “Give.”

At the end of my first week practically all the waitresses urged me to ask the head waiter to give me another station. A waitress, they assured me, was never expected to serve longer than one week at a table where tips were not given. As kindly as this advice was intended it did not happen to suit my case—not exactly. Never again, in human probability, I reasoned, would so good an opportunity to study this type of American come my way.

The millionaire paid two visits to his family while I was serving them. During each visit he took five meals. A Sunday dinner when he and his wife ate alone is memorable. After ordering practically everything on the menu, and just as I imagined them ready to leave the table, he turned on me and demanded white potatoes. He said that he had ordered mashed potatoes and that I had failed to bring them. His attack was so unexpected that I was dumb. Not so Anna.

Crossing to the table she pulled a platter from among the pile of soiled dishes surrounding his plate and held it out to him.

“There’s your white potatoes,” she told him. “You done eat ’em.”

Several days before Easter this family departed. I had served them three hundred and seventy-nine elaborate meals, been found fault with, rudely ordered about, grumbled at, and might have been reprimanded by the head waiter had he not, having learned that no tips were to be expected, studiously kept away from their table. My tip was a soiled one-dollar bill ungraciously given. It was one hundred cents more than any of their former waitresses had received, and they had been stopping in the hotel for more than four months.

The family occupied five of the most expensive rooms in the hotel and monopolized the services of two chambermaids and a scrubwoman. There was not a week while I was serving them that the wife did not make at least one trip to one of the neighboring cities. On her return she invariably boasted to any waitress who would listen of the amount of money she had spent and the expensive clothes she had bought. At one dinner she wore a wonderful evening gown, for which she stated she had paid twenty-five hundred dollars.

Knowing the wages paid to working women in New York at that time, I wondered what per cent of that sum had reached the women who had made the gown. What was their weekly wage?

It was not, however, the conduct of this family of millionaires that convinced me before I had been a week at the Sea Foam that domestic service is very different from what I had imagined. In the first place I had always assumed that hotel waiters had the same food as the guests, certainly what was left over. Such, I was assured by the head waiter and the steward, is the custom only in “cheap joints.” At the Sea Foam, if a waitress ate so much as a mouthful of food left by a guest she was discharged in disgrace.

Our food—that is, the food prepared in the kitchen of Belgrave House—was the worst I have ever tried to swallow. During my second week, the breakfast being more uneatable than usual, I complained to Mary, my roommate. Mary was scrubwoman and maid of all work in the Belgrave kitchen. I asked her why, if they were going to send us scraps of meat over from the Sea Foam, it was not properly cooked?

She assured me that the only food sent from the hotel were the meals for the Belgrave housekeeper. In proof of this she took me down to the kitchen of the dormitory and showed me the box of sliced bacon from which what I had called “meat scraps” had been taken. It was the best grade.

Mary explained that the cook had emptied half of the contents of a box into a huge pan and put it over the fire. To keep it from burning he stirred it around from time to time, then ladled the mass into dishes and sent it into the dining-room. That bacon is a fair sample of the food served in the waitresses’ dining-room while I worked at the Sea Foam.

What the consequences might have been had the waitresses been supplied with sufficient amount of palatable food may be questioned. As to what actually happened there can be no doubt. “Dog tired” from overwork and a lack of food, a large majority of the waitresses hurried to the seashore immediately on leaving the dining-room after dinner. Often this was after nine o’clock at night.

Their first trip was taken in search of food. Accompanied by two of my fellow waitresses, I made such a trip the night after my arrival. Twenty men, in groups of two or more, invited us to eat with them. It is a question easily settled when a girl has money, but when she has no money and is hungry, what then? This is no abnormal appetite created by sea air. It is hard work and lack of food at our regular meals.

Another of my misapprehensions. I had fancied that the duty of a waiter or a waitress was to serve food, three meals a day. Time between meals I assumed they were free to use as they pleased.

When on regular duty a waitress at the Sea Foam reports for breakfast not later than a quarter before seven. To do this I had to rise at five forty-five. In that hour I had to take my bath, dress, make my bed, straighten up my room, eat my breakfast, punch the time-clock in the basement of the hotel, and get in the dining-room before the time mentioned. If so much as a fraction of a second late the door was bolted against me.

Though breakfast was supposed to end at nine, a waitress seldom, almost never, got rid of her guests until a half-hour later. Then came the collection of used napkins and table-cloths and exchanging them for fresh ones. Next the washing and polishing of silver and glass, the cleaning and filling of sugar-bowls, water-bottles, salt-shakers, pepper-shakers, vinegar-cruets, oil-bottle, and, last though by no means least, the arranging of cut flowers. After this was all accomplished to the satisfaction of the head waiter or his assistant the chairs, side-tables, radiators, and all the woodwork in the dining-room had to be gone over with a damp cloth. Then came the setting of the tables, leaving them ready for the next meal. It was seldom we got through this morning work before eleven.

Between that time and twelve-fifty there was always more than enough personal work to be done—washing and ironing one’s clothes, polishing one’s shoes, mending, and the thousand and one little odds and ends that must be promptly attended to if a waitress is to appear well groomed.

The prospectus sent me before I left New York distinctly stated that the laundry of waitresses was done by the hotel free of charge. When I inquired about sending my clothes to the hotel laundry all the waitresses shook their heads. I might take the risk if I had a mind, they told me, but so far as their experience went garments were seldom returned, never in as good condition as when sent out. On learning that the two waitresses who had been in the employ of the Sea Foam for more than one year both did their own laundry, I decided to follow their example.

Lunch and dinner at the Sea Foam were like breakfast—long-drawn-out meals. A waitress seldom got rid of her guests under a half-hour after the dining-room closed, and often it was a full hour.

When on “early watch” a waitress had to be in the hotel dining-room not later than six in the morning. This is for the convenience of guests leaving by early train. “Late watch” means remaining until midnight to serve guests arriving on late trains or those who, after a promenade along the shore, felt the need of an extra meal. Being on watch does not curtail in any particular the regular duties of a waitress.

On one such occasion my diary reads: “April 2, 1917. Went on watch at 5.58 A. M., served four early breakfasts and reset tables. Return Belgrave at 6.46 and ate my breakfast. Back in dining-room at 6.57. Put water, ice, and menus on my table. The family of the multimillionaire having left the night before, the assistant head waiter gave me three two-seaters nearer the dining-room door. I set up these tables and served six breakfasts. Returned to Belgrave at 11.32. Ironed two aprons, a white skirt, a petticoat, and two collar-and-cuff sets. Ate my lunch and was back in the dining-room at 12.57. Served seven lunches and then held open the dining-room door for fifty-two minutes that late guests might pass out. Rolled the carpet, set up my tables and returned to Belgrave at 4.15. Rested nearly a half-hour, then pressed my black waist, took a bath, went to a store on the corner for some peanut butter and crackers. Ate dinner and returned to the hotel dining-room at 6.07. Served eight dinners and went off duty at 8.56.”

Do not forget that at the Sea Foam it is not considered good form to employ bus boys. A waitress not only brings in all food but she must carry out all dishes and wash, polish, dry, and bring back to the dining-room all china, glass, and silver used on her tables.

My diary for the following day, April 3, reads: “Yesterday was a memorable day in the history of our country—perhaps of the world—President Wilson asked Congress to declare that a state of war exists between the United States and Germany. Excepting myself I believe every waitress in the Sea Foam has written either to the secretary of war or direct to the President offering her services. So far as the six persons at my tables are concerned only the little boy from Wilmington, Delaware, has shown any interest in the matter. He came in a half-hour ahead of his mother this morning and spent the time talking to me about our preparedness, etc. He’s a dear little chap.”

Only lack of money kept me at Sea Foam. Before the end of my second week I had learned more than enough to understand why women and girls prefer to eke out an existence on the meagre wage received in shops and factories rather than enjoy the “home comforts” offered by domestic service. Only the experience of Beulah, a dear little girl from Canada, prevented me from giving up my job and returning to New York.

Beulah, whose season in Bermuda had been cut short by the war, came to Sea Foam on a three weeks’ contract. Through a waitress friend she received an offer of a permanent position in a hotel near New York City. Though it was ten days before Easter and gave the head waiter ample time to fill her place, he not only refused to pay the wage due her but threatened to have her black-listed in hotel employment bureaus. In order to reach her new position Beulah was forced to borrow money to pay her railroad fare.

Not wishing to write and borrow money of Alice to pay my way back to New York, I determined to get myself discharged. How to accomplish this without doing anything rude or disorderly became my problem. When, a few days before Easter, the assistant housekeeper of the Belgrave confided to me that the head waiter had confided to her his intention of giving me a year’s contract, perhaps making me a “captain,” I gritted my teeth. Determined not to borrow of Alice, I was equally as determined not to remain to the end of my contract.

The day before Easter I was put on early watch for the second time. As waitresses are supposed to take turns at watch duty, believing that my opportunity for getting myself discharged had come, I hurried to the head waiter. He listened to my complaint against his assistant and then explained that he had suggested my being put on watch because there were so many new waitresses who could not be trusted to “swing the job.”

“You’ve got a head on your shoulders,” he informed me. “The management has decided to keep you on after Easter. That’s the reason I’m pushing you forward—to get you promoted.”

Easter morning found the head waiter and his assistant so nervous that they reminded me of ill-conditioned sheepdogs snapping and snarling at each and every member of their flock. A few minutes after the dining-room door opened for breakfast, just when the earliest guests began to trickle in, the first of a veritable avalanche of potted plants and cut flowers were brought in. Certain guests, wishing their tables to be especially attractive, had ordered these flowers and plants added to the abundant supply already provided by the hotel.

So, after getting rid of our breakfast guests, in addition to our routine work we waitresses had to put those plants and flowers on the tables indicated, and make them look as presentable as possible. This was far from an easy task, for in most cases the plants and flowers had been chosen because of their beauty and utterly regardless of the size or the shape of the table to be decorated. It was twenty-six minutes after twelve when I left that dining-room, and several waitresses were still struggling with their over-abundance of cut flowers and potted plants.

Having changed my uniform and swallowed a few morsels in the way of lunch, I was back in the dining-room at twelve thirty-seven. When the doors opened, the occupants of my three tables, instead of being among the early diners as they had all promised, were all late. Anna, whose station was next mine, was unfortunate in the opposite direction—her guests, four at one table and two at the other, all arrived at the same time.

For the sake of helping Anna I took the order of the guests at her two-seater—a German-American and his American wife, the most perfect example of a rooster-pecked woman I have ever seen. On returning from the kitchen with the second course for this couple, I found all my guests in their seats. After serving the course on my tray I went to the assistant head waiter, explained to him that Anna needed assistance, and turned over to him the order of the German-American. Then, returning to my station, I took the orders of my own people.

At that time, on a bench at the back of the dining-room, there were seated, waiting to be called on, nine extra waitresses who had been brought on from a near-by city that morning. When instructing the regular waitresses that morning the head waiter had ordered us to report to himself or his assistant when any of us needed the help of these girls. Naturally I expected the assistant head waiter to send one of them to finish serving the guests at Anna’s two-seater.

On returning with my tray laden with the first course for my six guests I found Anna’s station in an uproar. The German-American, having seen me take the orders of my regular guests, had complained so loudly that the head waiter had to be called from the front of the dining-room to straighten matters out. Catching sight of me on my return from the kitchen, the hyphenated citizen again persisted in his demand to have “that one with hair” finish serving his table. The head waiter, who was really a very good sort, firmly insisted that he must either accept the services of the extra waitress or wait and take his turn with Anna.

On my way back to the kitchen the assistant head waiter met me. He was on the carpet and I in the aisle next the wall.

“This is the last meal you’ll serve for me,” he called across the double line of tables to me, throwing up his arms in a nervous way he had.

“I accept my discharge,” I replied, realizing in a flash the opportunity for which I had been looking.

In the serving-room and kitchen I scattered the news broadcast, telling every one with whom I came in speaking distance that the assistant head waiter had discharged me. The steward assured me that it was all a mistake. The assistant head waiter was under a great strain, he explained, and very nervous. He tried to get me to promise not to notice the incident and to report as usual in the dining-room for supper.

Two of my guests who overheard me tell Anna offered to take the matter up with the manager of the hotel if the head waiter refused to keep me on. This frightened me stiff. Ten days more at the Sea Foam was more than I could look forward to with equanimity. There was genuine pathos in my voice when I begged them not to interfere.

My description of my discharge so affected Mary, my roommate, that she insisted on taking me for an outing. In fact, nothing but my positive refusal to get into a wheel-chair prevented her from indulging in that extravagant attention. Truthfully assuring her that it would be much more enjoyable to sit and watch the crowd, we found comfortable seats under a pavilion and there spent the afternoon.

Perhaps it was the weather, or maybe the reaction following the emotional elation caused by the incident of my discharge. Whatever the reason, I have never before or since experienced such a virulent attack of discouragement as I did while watching that moving throng. Not for myself alone, but for the human race. While watching the people passing in front of us—two steady streams of walkers with two packed lines of wheel-chairs between—I suddenly realized them as an endless succession of pygmies.

Not one of them nor all of them could stop the incoming nor the outgoing of the sea that over the beach had the look of dirty bilge-water as creeping in higher and higher it slapped the sand. Nor could one of them nor all of them sweep aside the mist that like a dingy white curtain cut off our view of the ocean and rendered indistinct the end of the boardwalk.

What were they trying to do, these pygmies? For what were they struggling? Here they were tramping futilely up and down the shore, working hard to digest the food with which they had just stuffed themselves—while in the rear of the hotels I knew there were ten times as many working even harder to get food to support life.

What did it all mean—this endless, unceasing struggle between human cooties and human drudges? What did it all amount to—the lives of these pygmies? Where had they come from? Where were they going? What were they trying to do?

Then, my thoughts turning inward, I demanded of myself:

“What are you trying to do? Granting that these pygmies crawling along the beaches are human cooties and those working in the hotels are human drudges, what then? The cooties are no more to blame for our economic system than the drudges. You’ve been a human cooty and you know that you did not give any more thought to the human drudges who slaved for your comfort than these people do to you. Remember the time you stopped at the Ardale-Stratton? Spent money like water.”

Thus reminded of my first visit to this resort, my mind slipped back more than ten years. I had come down from New York City under the chaperonage of one of the most distinguished women in the country. We planned to remain two weeks. Before the end of that time she had been taken seriously ill, and, though her own relatives and friends left her and returned to their homes, I remained. Bored by the monotony of hotel life, with the knowledge of spending too much money perpetually nagging at my consciousness, I dreaded to leave the old lady among strangers and attended only by her maid. Our visit stretched from two weeks to five months. Day after day I had loafed along the beach, watching the water—the threatening, the greedy, the sullen, the laughing, the beautiful, the peaceful, the soothing sea.

With a throb of pride I recalled that every Sunday morning during that tedious visit I had tipped my waiter and chambermaid one dollar each. Though I recalled that the service they gave me was always the best, I could not remember the name of either. Were they to meet me face to face I would not be conscious of ever having seen them before. I had never realized them as fellow human beings. I had never considered their convenience. I had never considered their feelings. In extenuation I told myself that it was because I had not understood.

“Neither do the persons with whom you are now finding fault understand,” my conscience flashed back at me. “Yet you call them human cooties—criticise their lack of purpose. What do you think you will accomplish, sitting out here with a kitchen-maid? You had better take your own advice to heart—get back where you belong and take care of yourself. You never planned to have Polly Preston become a domestic servant. Go back where you belong.”

Yawning, I rose to my feet. It seemed the sensible thing to do—to tell Mary that I was going for a walk and she must not wait for me. During Easter there was certain to be a number of my acquaintances at the Ardale-Stratton. I had only to register or send my visiting-card to the proprietor to get the best that the hotel had to offer. Telegraphing for my trunks and writing Alice that I had gotten all the first-hand material needed for my novel were simple details.

Before speaking to Mary, and while still yawning, my eyes wandered out to sea. The wind had blown a hole in the mist. Across this opening in the foreground there was steaming a black-gray dreadnought, its three funnels belching black-gray smoke. My country was at war and I had forgotten it!

As the battleship disappeared behind the bank of mist that formed the westerly frame of the picture in the far corner, in the background three slender spars of a schooner-rigged sailing-vessel crept into view. Her hull seemed a black cord above the silvery sea, and her stretch of canvas, low down, appeared hardly larger than my thumbnail.

“The new and the old!” I exclaimed, comparing the majestic power of the dreadnought with the struggling sailing-ship.

Every drop of blood in your veins crossed the Atlantic in a vessel no larger and in all human probabilities no more seaworthy than that schooner, my thoughts ran on. What voyages those must have been! Storms! Shipwrecks! What men and what women!—French Huguenot, English, Welsh, and Scot.

Standing there under the pavilion with my eyes fastened on the struggling ship, I fell to musing about those ancestors of mine—how they had struggled against all the forces of nature to conquer a wilderness inhabited by savages; how, after conquering that wilderness, they had wrenched their new homes free from the mother country. And with a start of amazement I considered their reason, why they had dared all, suffered all—to found a government under which every child might be born free and equal.

Free and equal! What did that mean? What had those wonderful old men and women planned?

I looked down at Mary. And across my mind there swept stories of the man from whom my Welsh strain sprung. After serving as governor of the colony he had enlisted in the Continental army as a private. Though his son-in-law, one generation nearer me, had become one of Washington’s major-generals—a private the old Welshman persisted in remaining to the end of the Revolution.

Hot blood crept up into my face until my cheeks burned and my ears tingled. Who was I, what had I accomplished, that gave me the right to turn up my nose at associating with a kitchen-maid? I slipped back into the seat beside Mary.

What had I done? What was I doing to carry on the high resolves of this old Welshman and the rest of my hard-fighting, high-thinking ancestors? If I could not go to the front and fight to carry on the ideals of the country they had founded I could at least try to bring about an understanding of conditions at home—conditions caused by the ever-increasing struggle between human cooties and human drudges—a struggle which appears to me now as I write to threaten a greater disaster than that of the World War!

Turning to the woman at my side, I asked:

“Mary, didn’t you say that your cousin planned to give up her position as head chambermaid with a wealthy family in Pennsylvania?”

“She give notice more’n three months ago,” my roommate assured me, eager to get me to talk. “If the housekeeper wasn’t so mortal hard to please Jennie’d be married and livin’ in her own home. The man she’s goin’ to marry owns his own farm and lives real well.” And Mary rambled off, giving a minute description of her cousin’s future husband and home.

On our way back to the Belgrave after helping Mary compose a night-letter to her cousin I sent a telegram to Alice announcing that I would return the next day to New York. That evening on their return from work in the Sea Foam my fellow waitresses gave me a farewell entertainment.

And it was a real entertainment, for several of the girls had good natural voices and an ear for music. It will be a long time before memories of “I’d Give My Crown for an Irish Stew,” as sung by laughter-loving Mollie, fades from my mind. One young waitress seemed to me as good a clog-dancer as I had seen on the stage. She had picked up the steps at a minstrel show—one attendance. What was still more surprising to me was that every one of them could do something in the way of playing the piano. Only one of them had ever taken lessons.

Though I thoroughly enjoyed that evening I do not believe that in my whole life I ever felt so diffidently self-conscious. The realization of yourself as the only hypocrite among honest folk is not pleasant. These girls were all genuinely sorry for me, for my being discharged. Each one had contributed her mite to pay for the bunch of flowers presented to me at the end of the evening. I felt like a thief.

The next morning when I applied at the hotel office for the wage due me, the paymaster gave me a receipt to sign. He had computed the amount at the rate of thirteen dollars a month.

“According to my contract I was to be paid at the rate of sixteen dollars a month,” I reminded him, returning the paper unsigned.

“You are not working in the side-hall,” he snapped back at me.

“I went where I was sent,” I told him. “The head waiter stationed me in the dining-room. Since the hotel required me to sign a contract I shall require the hotel to live up to that contract.”

Being accustomed to handling uneducated women this man fancied that all he had to do to intimidate me was to talk loud. When he paused in his shouting I repeated my first statement—the hotel must live up to its contract with me. After a second bout at loud talking the stenographer came to his assistance. She assured me “as a friend” that I had best take the amount offered me, as it was all that I would get. Besides I had no copy of the contract I claimed to have signed.

She gasped on being assured that I did have a second copy of the contract—the copy Mrs. Wilkins had sent for. Taking another tack, this girl reminded me that the difference between sixteen and thirteen was too small to dispute about. Whereupon I inquired why the hotel was unwilling to pay it.

Declaring that nothing could be done until my contract was found, both the stenographer and the paymaster went back to their work. After waiting thirty minutes by the clock I again asked for my wages. The paymaster informed me that my contract had not been found and that I would have to wait till they had time to look for it. At the end of the second thirty minutes, and seeing that no effort was being made to get the contract, I remarked that perhaps it might be just as well for me to call on the clerk of the district court while waiting.

Simple as that statement may seem, it had a surprising effect on the paymaster. Hurrying to the door of his enclosure he urged me to enter, sit down, and wait for the manager. The manager, he assured me, kept all contracts locked in a safe of which he alone knew the combination. On my persisting he followed me along the passageway, begging me “as a friend” to have a little patience. Another odd feature of the performance was that the housekeeper of the Belgrave, though she had held the position for more than ten years, could not direct me to the city hall.

Once on the streets every passer-by was able to point out the city hall and tell me in just which corner I would find the clerk of court. This man was or pretended to be as ignorant of Sea Foam as the housekeeper had been of his whereabouts. When I first stated my case he had some difficulty in recalling that there was such a hotel in the place—it is one of the best known thereabouts and less than five blocks from his office. His negro man of all work was so well informed that he was able not only to locate it exactly but to give the names of the stockholders.

The clerk of court, when warning me against “invoking the law” for such a small sum, informed me:

“The judge is all right, of course, but when it comes to a case against one of our large hotels there’s never any telling which way the cat will jump. I strongly advise you to go back to the hotel and see the manager. Maybe they will have found your contract and will be willing to pay you at the rate of sixteen a month.” Then he added, as he handed me his card: “I wouldn’t be surprised you’d find them with the money all counted out ready for you.”

“Neither would I,” I answered, keeping tight hold on the muscles of my face to prevent myself from returning his smile.

And it proved even as he said. Not only was the money ready for me but the paymaster’s manner had undergone a complete change. Telling me that the manager wished to speak to me, he held open the office-door and politely ushered me in.

The manager of the Sea Foam is, or was at that time, a square-built man with red hair. As we stared at each other across the broad top of his mahogany office-table our eyes were on a level. It was quite evident that he expected to stare me out of countenance. He made a mistake. His eyes were the first to give way.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said, motioning to a chair.

“Thank you. I have neither the time nor the inclination,” I told him. “What is it you wish to say to me?”

“To ask you why you went to the clerk of court.”

“To prove to the Sea Foam waitresses that they can force the hotel to live up to its contracts.”

Then I told him of the way little Beulah had been treated. He listened as though hearing of such an incident for the first time. Judging by what I had heard, it had been the policy of the hotel toward waitresses for years.

At lunch, my last meal at the Belgrave, when describing my experience I distributed copies of the clerk of court’s business cards.

“It won’t do any good until we are organized,” one of the older girls said. “If a few of us kick or insist on being paid sixteen instead of thirteen we’ll be discharged and blacklisted. If we organize we can force up wages——”

“And cut out tips,” a younger girl interrupted. “It’s a darn shame for the hotels to put up their rates and expect guests to pay extra for service. It’s a darn shame.”

While this was going on the girls at the other end of the table had been whispering together. Now the girl at the head of the table held up her hand, signalling for silence. Then, after a glance at the adjoining table to make sure the assistant housekeeper was not listening, she informed me that she had been delegated to ask me to remain and organize the waitresses, beginning with those working in the larger hotels.

The request was so unexpected that for a moment I was dumb. On recovering myself I reminded them that our country was at war. So long as the war lasted we at home must keep our shoulder to the wheel. If the wheel cut into our flesh we must endure it for the sake of pushing the load to safety.

“And after the war?” the spokesman asked.

“After the war organize. Then, if you prove your consistency by refusing to take tips, the public will help you get a decent wage,” I replied. And I still believe that I spoke the truth.