“A wise woman knows that economy in money isn’t always real economy.”—H. C. OF L. PROVERB NO. 4.

Mr. Larry tasted the second mouthful of lemon pie and glanced at Mrs. Larry. Then he plunged into the business of finishing off its yellow and white sweetness, just as if it had been Mrs. Larry’s very best brand of dessert.

“Oh, Larry dear, don’t—don’t eat it. It’s simply fearful—and I bought it at the exchange, too. I guess she put too much corn-starch in it—or didn’t cook it enough.”

There was the hint of tears in her voice, and her chin quivered just enough to deepen the dimple that cleft it. Down went Mr. Larry’s after-dinner coffee cup, and in two strides he was round the table, throwing his arms about her. He spoke very tenderly:

“What is the matter, dearest? Are you sick?”

“No—honey—I’m just a little fool!” And now the tears flowed frankly and unchecked.

“You’re nothing of the sort, and one lemon pie—”

“It’s not the pie, Larry, it’s—it’s everything! Ever since I started to cut down our table expenses, I’ve been losing money in other ways. I can’t be in two places at once, can I?”

Mr. Larry shook his head.

“And so—when I’m chasing all over town looking for cheaper markets, things go wrong here at home. While I was picking up bargains in poultry and vegetables in the city market last Saturday, Lena broke one of my best goblets—they cost me forty-five cents each—there went all I saved on vegetables. I never let Lena wash the fine glass and china when I’m home.

“Then this afternoon I went to Mrs. Norton’s to talk about organizing a marketing club to buy in quantities, and suddenly remembered I had made no dessert. The exchange charged sixty cents for that apology for a pie. I could make the real thing for twenty.”

“You bet you could,” remarked Mr. Larry, heartily if inelegantly.

“And the cleaner charged me one dollar for cleaning baby’s coat. I’ve always done it myself with a quarter’s worth of gasoline. So here I am, trying to work out some method of reducing household expenses, but neglecting my house and cooking and wondering whether in the end I’ll have saved even a single penny.”

“Experiments are sometimes costly, but if they develop into labor savers or expense reducers, they are well worth while. You remember Maguire, who insisted that if the firm would give him time to experiment he could make one of our machines double its capacity? The firm agreed and paid his salary for two years. Then suddenly he turned the trick, and cut down expenses in that particular line of output about one-third. That paid, didn’t it?”

“Oh, Larry, you are so comforting. I do think there must be something in cooperation, in buying directly from producers in large quantities, because everybody is talking about it.”

“Then stop worrying about the little leaks and stick to it till you find out where the big saving lies,” said Mr. Larry.

“And, by the way, here’s a letter I found under the door and forgot to give you before dinner. Of course, I’m not jealous—but I have a natural curiosity to learn what Kansas City man dares write my wife.”

Mrs. Larry reached for the letter, worry vanishing before the sunny smile.

“Jimmy Graves! Give it to me instanter!”

Mr. Larry retained his grip on the letter and looked at her accusingly.

“Now, little woman, don’t you try to understudy destiny. It’s ticklish business to patch up a quarrel between sweethearts. Better let them work out their own salvation.”

Mrs. Larry possessed herself of the envelope, patted the hand that relinquished it, and replied:

“Did you ever think, honey, how many young couples, blinded by anger, self-pity or pride, can not see the road which leads to the salvation of their happiness? Well, I just painted a sign-board, not another thing, Larry, so let’s see whether Jimmy read it aright.”

“Dear Mrs. Larry,” ran the letter—“It certainly was good of you to write me so kindly after I rushed out of town without so much as telephoning, but, manlike, I left a lot of things till the very last minute. And it was jolly to hear of the adventure in thrift which you and Claire are sharing. You know the sort of girl she is, too modest to let even the man who loves her know how thorough and earnest she is. She hasn’t written me a word about it, and perhaps she won’t, so if you have time to drop me an occasional line about your jaunts, I sure would enjoy it. And when you’ve done all the stunts, perhaps I might come on and blow you both to a dinner, reward of virtue and all that sort of thing. That is, if you think it wise for me to come.

“My regards to old Larry and chuck both the kiddies under the chin for their adopted Uncle Jimmy.

“P. S.—Don’t let Claire overdo the thing. Remember I am trusting you with the biggest thing in my life.”

Mrs. Larry raised shining eyes to her husband’s face.

“Oh, my dear, can you read between the lines? He doesn’t admit that anything has happened between them—man creature that he is—but he is starving for a word of her.”

“Well, why don’t you tell her?”

“Honey, she’d never speak to me again. No—I shall just write an occasional sign-board for Jimmy. Claire doesn’t deserve one.”

“Don’t be so hard on Claire, dear. Remember, she didn’t have your advantages—a sane home life—a fine wholesome mother who believed in marriage for love—”

“To say nothing of a man worth waiting and working for—” interrupted Mrs. Larry.

“Outside the question, madam. Claire has been raised in the atmosphere of personal luxury and in the belief that there is nothing worse than having to do for herself and for others. If she wasn’t vastly different from her pleasure-loving mother, Jimmy Graves never would have had a chance with her. It would have been a millionaire or nothing for her.”

“And as she has turned her back on millionaires, I propose to do my part in steering her toward happiness with the common or garden variety of husband. But, of course, this must be done tactfully. So, when she comes for the conference to-night—you are to act as if she just dropped in accidentally and we insisted on her staying to see the fun.”

“Fun! Um-m—” murmured Mr. Larry. “If this conference is on the practical question of reducing the cost of living, and Claire betrays interest, I fear she will rouse the suspicions of sharp-eyed, clever Teresa Moore. Why can’t you women play the game of being in love, like we men do, open and above aboard?”

“Because, dearest husband, for generations we have been taught that a ‘nice’ girl does not flaunt love. Your grandmothers might have died of love, but admit it—never. However, at the present rate of liberation, we’ll soon be proposing—”

“Do you really believe that men propose? Why—”

“Now, Larry Hall, don’t you dare start that moth-eaten argument. You did—”

“Of course, but you were an exceptional girl—”

Having admitted that such might be the case and having escaped from her husband’s enfolding arms, Mrs. Larry outlined the evening’s plans.

“You remember that dear little Mrs. Norton I met coming from the Queensboro market? Well, she and I decided that on this block are enough housekeepers to form a market club—”

“No doubt the lady across the hall, with the chestnut locks and the five hundred dollar Pekinese, will be deeply interested in such a project.”

“Now, Larry, don’t be discouraging. We have been looking over our neighbors, and we’re going to start with the ones that take their own babies for an airing on the drive.”

“Wise and observant lady!”

“I wrote to Mrs. Bleecker Bangs, president of the Brooklyn Market Club, for suggestions, and she answered right away. Her letter with the clippings she enclosed will help us outline our plans.”

“And who are ‘we’?”

“Mrs. Norton, Teresa, Claire—”

“Then I’m expected to furnish a valid excuse for spending the evening away from home?”

“No, indeedy. You stop right here. Mr. Norton and Mr. Moore are coming. You men can help us organize. You ought to help. It’s your money we’re trying to save.”

“Quite so;” responded Mr. Larry, with sudden gravity. After all, these investigations did seem to mean quite a lot to the men who earned the money.

So at eight o’clock, Mrs. Larry faced her little audience of six, Mrs. Bleecker Bangs’ letter in hand:

“400 Lafayette Avenue, Brooklyn, N. Y.

“My Dear Mrs. Hall—I would be very glad to supply you with suggestions for organizing your club, but my time is taken with writing. Ladies by dozens are asking me how to organize and should be instructed. So I send you newspaper clippings, interviews with me, which will do just as well. Follow the suggestions in these articles and you will have great success, I am sure.

“Sincerely,
“Charlotte R. Bangs.”

“Explicit and to the point,” remarked Mr. Larry. “And now for the clippings.”

“‘On Friday evening,” Mrs. Larry continued, “every member of the club comes to see me and brings a list of the things she would like to have purchased for her. She also brings her money, because everything is cash, and I have to have the money to pay as soon as I have made my purchase. I go to the market about eight o’clock, because the busiest time is over then, and I can pick up bargains. That is the whole secret of saving by this plan—buying bargains which are going for almost nothing. For instance, a broken basket of fine Hubbard squashes will be offered at a very great reduction, because the busy time is over.

“‘I purchase to the best advantage I can. The things are delivered at my home early in the afternoon, and all the housekeepers come over and take their things home, and settle the account then and there.

“‘The rules of the club are not many nor very complicated. We hold business meetings once a month for the purpose of making a schedule of buyers. That means four members each twenty-eight days; two trips to market for each member. When it is inconvenient for a member, she gives her reasons, and usually some other member is ready to step in and exchange with her. Of course, each club member knows who is to buy that week. Monday and Thursday nights each member of the club sends in a list of the things she wants, with the quantity and the money. The marketer combines these lists to get the quantity as well as the articles.

“‘What happens if only one person wants a small quantity of one particular item? That article is crossed from their list, and they are warned, so they can get it from the greengrocer. We had a lot of that when the club first started; now it seldom happens. Even when it did happen, and the various members bought one or more items each week from the greengrocer, they saved so much on the staple items bought wholesale that we have never had one who willingly withdrew from the club.’”

Mrs. Larry paused dramatically, and Mrs. Norton murmured, “Lovely!”

“Does she give any actual comparison between her prices and what the ordinary housewife pays?” asked Mr. Moore.

“Oh, yes,” answered Mrs. Larry. “Here’s a table:

“‘Besides, we pick up bargains by getting in after the rush is over. Only last week I bought beautiful lettuce at a cent a head. Earlier in the day it had sold at two and a half cents the head to greengrocers, who retailed it at ten cents.

“‘Do we save as much as that, the difference between two and a half and ten cents on everything? On a good many things, yes!’

“Imagine! Last Thanksgiving she bought white grapes by the keg,” interrupted Mrs. Larry; “sixty pounds at eight cents a pound, when all retailers were asking us eighteen and twenty cents. Just listen:

“‘At the end of each year the secretary makes her report, showing approximately how much the members of the club have saved. The difference is between the wholesale and retail prices of food supplies. Last year’s report showed a saving of nearly sixty per cent. That was our banner year, but we have never run below forty per cent. At first I counted on saving forty per cent.; now we think it safe to say we save fifty-five per cent.’

“Now, Teresa, isn’t that great?”

“It is, my dear—too great to be practical or to last. I investigated the Brooklyn Market Club when it was first started several years ago, and found it was practically only for Mrs. Bangs and her particular little group. In that group were her own married daughters and a very few intimate, tried friends, who understood one another and worked out the plan systematically. Then, for months Mrs. Bangs gave herself over to running the club. She had no children at home, nothing to interfere with the successful management of that little organization. In fact, when I asked her whether any one else would take up the work if she dropped it, she said she was quite sure no one could. And any organization which demands an enthusiast, a fanatic, as its manager is not practical.”

“But, my dear woman,” remarked Mrs. Norton briskly, “surely any of us could train ourselves for the work.”

“Any one who does must be paid for it, must make a business of it, because it will take all her time. I don’t want to throw cold water on your lovely plan, Mrs. Larry,” she said affectionately, “but I don’t want you chasing rainbows. Let us analyze some of Mrs. Bangs’ figures and compare them with our own needs. You speak of organizing a club of six. Well, let us say ten, if we are to buy in such quantities. Very well. Mrs. Bangs buys sixty pounds of white grapes in order to secure a keg at the rate of eight cents a pound. What would you and I do with six pounds of grapes? How could we keep them until they were used, in our little apartments? And do you know what lettuce at two and three cents a head means? Buying a sack or crate of it. We’d receive about eight heads, each one of us—and how much would we have to throw away when it spoiled on our hands? My husband won’t live on lettuce!

“And then there is the question of delivery. I have bought fruit wholesale for preserving, and paid from twenty-five cents to a dollar for having it delivered. At the lower figure, you wait till the expressman pleases to deliver it. Then comes the question of distributing it from the apartment at which it is delivered. How would your kitchen look if it was the delivery center, and we divided up sacks of potatoes, barrels of apples, kegs of grapes and crates of lettuce?

“And can you see us, all creeping home after nightfall with our supplies, leaving you and your girl to clean up the mess? Not for my kitchen, Mrs. Larry.”

A silence followed these few spirited remarks.

“That does put it in a new light,” said Mrs. Norton at last. “But it looked so lovely on paper.”

Claire echoed the sigh.

Mrs. Larry, her shoulders drooping pathetically, was folding up the clippings.

“Don’t let me discourage you,” continued practical Mrs. Moore. “If you think you can organize and secure ten women willing to give a great deal of time and put up with considerable inconvenience in order to save, perhaps, ten per cent. in the final accounting, go ahead and try it; but I thought you ought to know that I had thoroughly investigated Mrs. Bangs’ plan and found just where it fails us women in small apartments. I do not think her club even exists now, but it served an excellent purpose—it made Mrs. Bangs an authority on household economics and marketing, and she is very busy writing for publication.”

“Well, then, it helped some one,” remarked Mr. Larry, trying to speak lightly, and wishing he could pat Mrs. Larry’s hand without being caught in the act.

“Oh, yes, each of these cooperative plans has its good points,” continued Mrs. Moore. “I have two friends living in Chicago who belong to such an organization, and they save a great deal, but they deal directly with the producers.”

“How?” asked Mr. Norton, deeply interested.

“By parcel post, express and correspondence. Their organization grew out of the old Fifty-first Street Food and Market Club, formed to clean up the markets and groceries and stands in their neighborhood. From cleaning up food, they naturally turned their attention to cutting down prices. One of the leading spirits of this club, which is little more than a group of practical, earnest neighbors, is Mrs. J. C. Bley, president of the famous Chicago Clean Food Club, and active in all the good works done by the household economic department of the equally famous Woman’s Club.

“This little band of economists buys potatoes, apples, butter, eggs, poultry, etc., direct from farmers. One of their number acts as purchasing agent and general secretary. She carries on the correspondence with farmers, has all goods shipped to her house and sends for her coworkers when fresh consignments arrive. She is practically the middleman for the rest of the club, and receives a small commission from the members. And she is worth it, because she conducts their business admirably, and saves them as much as one-third on their supplies.

“Mrs. Bley, a most practical woman, is deeply interested in the experiment, and hopes to extend the movement until farmers’ wives and city housekeepers know each other better and are mutually useful. When I visited her home last she was making a special study of cartons for the parcel-post service for her club members. I call that practical.”

“But how do they get in touch with the farmers?” inquired Mr. Norton.

“Through the granges and their secretaries. All farmers’ societies are encouraging direct sales by parcel-post system. That is the hope of the woman in the small city apartment or modern cottage, deprived of cellar, pantry or storage space.

“For the more fortunate woman who can still boast a cellar with dry bins, or a huge pantry, I imagine that the cooperative league, run by Mrs. Ellms of Cincinnati, would be ideal. I can not give you the particulars, but my cousin, Emily Tyler, can, because she was a member of the organization when she lived in Cincinnati. Wouldn’t you all like to come round to our house Friday night and meet her?”

The invitation was accepted with enthusiasm, after which Mr. Larry rolled back the rugs and Mrs. Larry turned on the phonograph for one-stepping, while Lena appeared with a fruit punch and little cakes. For, as Mrs. Norton philosophically remarked—“What’s the use of taking economy so hard that you get to hate it?”

Mrs. Tyler, formerly of Cincinnati, now of Flushing, New York, proved to be a plump and friendly young matron, with deep blue eyes that took on a violet tint when she talked earnestly on cooperative buying.

“You see, I’ve brought the documents in the case,” she said smilingly, as she pointed to a quantity of printed matter on Mrs. Moore’s library table. “But you must stop me the minute you feel bored. I’m so homesick for my Cooperative League that it is a joy to talk about it.”

“I’ve brought the documents in the case”