The great see-saw of life is as interesting as a poker game if you only have a mind to watch it, but, like the poker game, it must be thoroughly understood and closely studied to appreciate the fine points. In the beginning we all take cards, we all draw to fill; the winning hands slip easily through life, while the four flushes try to bluff it out, and there’s many a four flush in New York to-day who is getting away with it.

Many a girl who wears a sailor hat never saw a yacht, and many a man who wears a diamond pin couldn’t pay fifty cents on the dollar if it came to a show down.

But that isn’t the story by any means.

I call this little recital of facts the beginning and the end; you’ll see why later as the plot thickens.

New York with the lid on is New York just the same, no matter what the police say. It’s all there, only it is covered up a bit.

The shades are pulled closer, but the lights and everything else are behind them.

The wild revelry of the masked ball is toned down not one jot, and the perfect ladies in tights who help to make life endurable for the sports on these occasions do not add, so far as can be seen, even so much as one piece of jewelry to their scant costumes.

You may never have seen the kind of room I’m going to introduce to you, but if you haven’t it’s your fault, for they are common enough, not only in New York, but in many other cities.

There’s space enough for dancing here, and the floor is polished like glass. Around the sides are round tables for the drinkers, and they are the most important feature, for if you don’t drink, or at least order drinks, you had better skiddoo, for you’ll not have a very pleasant time.

At one end of the room is an orchestra, consisting of a piano and a violin. I don’t need to call your attention to the fact that the fellow who is playing the violin knows his business. You can tell that by the way he handles his instrument. He never learned that touch out of a book, nor did he acquire that technique at the rate of ten lessons for a dollar, cash in advance. A few years before he was playing nocturnes and sonatas before fashionable audiences for big money, but he hit the slide and now he’s at the bottom—a dollar a night and drinks for ragtime.

The hands on the clock which mark the flight of time show exactly midnight, and business is at high tide. It’s a case of get the money between now and three o’clock and then slow down, and every aggressive waiter in the place is hustling as if his life depended on it.

A girl is standing at the piano as the orchestra strikes the introduction of a song. Not a bad-looking girl if you observe her closely. Rather a strong face, good, honest blue eyes, set well apart, and a chin in which there is some hint of determination and self-reliance. She has a trim little figure, not voluptuous, but good to look at—the kind of a figure that seems to belong in an evening gown, and which men turn around to look at.

The only thing that stamps her as an habitue of the place is her dress. Its gaudiness was made for the night. It is a street beacon which proclaims at every step, “follow me.” The picture hat, with the sweeping red feather, heightens the effect. It is all very stagey, and would look as garish as spangles in the honest light of day.

But this is not a daylight scene, so we’ll let that pass.

“Ha, there, you noisy guys, cut out that chinnin’; Little Melba’s goin’ ter sing. Cheese it.”

It is the strident voice of a waiter that admonishes a noisy party at one of the tables, and it has an immediate effect.

It’s just as well, you know, to pay a little attention to the advice of a waiter in a place like this.

And so she sings her song.

It is a refrain with a swing to it, and it tells the story of a man and a woman in a rather affecting way, and for her loyalty to him, the man calls the woman his pal.

But the words don’t count here; it’s the voice, and you’ll see why they call her Little Melba. Every note is true and clear, and there is never a falter at the high ones.

It doesn’t need a waiter to command order now; the first line of that song, as sung by her, did more than all the waiters in the world could do.

It commanded the respectful attention of that mixed mob. At the finish of the first chorus, a sailor in the exuberance of his admiration, and feeling that he must give voice to his sentiments in some tangible manner, roared out:

“You’re all right, old pal; you’re all right.”

She smiled at the compliment, nodded at him in a friendly way, and then she continued.

Every night she sang there—ten songs—and she was paid exactly the same as the waiters—one dollar, but she received in addition certain privileges, the details of which need not be entered into here, because they have nothing to do with the story.

One of the waiters—the one who had called out for order—was her man. She called him another name, and he was known to the world by still another. As a matter of fact, although he didn’t know it, he belonged to her—although he thought she belonged to him—for the clothes that he wore were bought with her money, the food that he ate she paid for, and it was she who rented the place which he called home. She was the bread winner, she bore the burden of life, and she took the blows. The police kept their eyes on her, but paid no attention to the man—the real criminal.

As the last notes of her song forced their way through the clouds of tobacco smoke, three men in evening dress came in. They were of the usual kind of visitors from which the waiters always expect a wine order. They wore evening clothes like men who had been used to them all their lives, and it didn’t need the sharp eyes of a waiter in a tough resort like this to detect that air of prosperity which invariably forms an invisible halo about money.

The square-jawed, square-shouldered young fellow who took the order was not disappointed. It was wine, and as he uncorked the bottle, full of a sense of his own importance, one of them asked, casually:

“Who is the lady who was singing as we came in?”

“Little Melba; she’s there with de goods, all right, ain’t she?”

“Tell her to come over here and have a drink.”

“Sure. Ha, Melba, you’re wanted over here,” he bawled, and smilingly she came.

“Will you have a drink?” asked the man who had sent for her.

“Wine?” she queried, “I’d rather have a glass of beer, if it’s all the same to you, for I’m thirsty enough to drink a keg. Then me for the wine afterward.”

After her drink had been ordered and she had tossed it off with the air of one who is well used to it, she remarked:

“Now I’ll hit a little of that fizz, if you don’t mind.”

“How long have you been singing here?”

“Oh, about six months. It’s a bum job, though. The smoke gets in my throat.”

“What songs do you sing?”

She ran over a list that took in all the popular melodies of the day.

“Here’s a dollar, get up and sing another one—anyone will do, and do your best.”

Dollars for singing one song were rare for her, so she obeyed with alacrity, and she sang as best she knew.

When she had finished she came back to where they were sitting just as one of the men was saying:

“Why don’t you give her a chance, Jim? You can never tell how these kind will turn out. Remember Elinore was dug up out of just such a joint as this.” “Do you want to go on the stage?” asked Jim, abruptly.

“Do I?” and she unconsciously straightened up. “Why, I’d go on for nothing, just to show them I could make good. Say, I’d work for my board. Can you put me on?”

“I think I can,” and smiled as he said it.

He pulled a card case out of his vest pocket, took a card from it, which he handed to her.

“Come see me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock.”

She looked at the name on the card and gasped in astonishment, for it was that of one of the best-known of metropolitan theatrical managers, whose chief claim to fame lay in the many successful productions of comic opera.

“Are you on the level with this?” she asked, incredulously.

“Come around to-morrow and see,” he answered.

“Put it there,” she said, excitedly, as she held out her hand, and then she called out to the waiter to whom she believed she owed her allegiance:

“Billy, Billy, come over here.”

With a roll and a swagger, and not too hurriedly, lest he lose one tithe of that dignity which he believed went with the position of beer slinger in one of the toughest joints in New York, Billy came, scowling, as if he already scented in the air coming interference with his plans of life.

“See, Billy,” she said, laughing like a little girl with the joy of it all. “See, this is the great theatre manager, and he’s going to give me a show to see what I can do. I’m going on the stage, Billy, in a regular theatre, and sing before the people. Ain’t it great?” She was like a child in her enthusiasm.

“Come on, let me blow the crowd: what are you going to have, boys?” this last with a comprehensive sweep of the hands. “I’m buying now.”

Billy stood looking down on her with a scowl.

“What’s all dis?” he asked. “What’s comin’ off here, and me not in on de play?”

Then he turned to the manager.

“What are yer doing—givin’ me gal a jolly, ha? Well, cut it out, it don’t go here, see? Don’t let ’em string yer, Melba. I guess de’re a bunch of pretty flip guys wid all dere glad rags; what?”

“This ain’t no string, Billy, this is all right, ain’t it, Mister?” and she appealed to the man who had been talking to her.

“It’s all right as far as I am concerned,” was the answer. “You do as I say, and if you have any ambition, I guess you’ll get along all right.”

“Do as you say?” queried the waiter, scornfully. “You ain’t no Pierpont Morgan. What’s de matter wid her doin’ as I say once in er while. Do yer t’ink I’m a dummy wot ain’t got no voice? I guess nit. Just cut all dis funny business out and leave my gal alone.”

“Take it easy, Billy, and don’t get excited. This is a chance for me, don’t you see? What’s the good of staying here and losing my voice for a dollar a night when I might be getting big money in the theatre?”

“Big money nothin’,” he protested. “Ain’t yer on dat it’s only a stall? Dis guy is stuck on yer, dat’s it. He wants to win yer away from me.”

The three wise men who had been drinking wine rose to their feet just as any other three wise men would have done under the circumstances. It doesn’t pay to get mixed up with a waiter in a tough joint, because the waiter always gets the best of it—that’s why he is a waiter. He has a lot to do besides serving drinks, and if he wasn’t handy with his fists, and feet, too, for that matter, he couldn’t hold his place for more than a night.

As they started for the door the girl stood up.

“I’ll be there to-morrow, all right,” she called out.

“Over my dead body you will,” came Billy’s voice.

They were out of the door by this time, too late to hear the sound of a blow and too late to see the girl drop to the floor.

They don’t interfere in those kind of family rows in the Tenderloin, or in the Bowery, either.

It isn’t healthy.

It’s etiquette to mind your own business and keep out of the way. And so nobody paid any attention to the weeping girl and the swearing blackguard. But that night in a dingy room a girl cried herself to sleep, and between her tears made up her mind what she would do on the morrow.

She did what she had planned to do, and twenty-four hours later the tough waiter was looking for another girl to take her place.

Between you and me, that happened a long while ago, as we count time in New York. Since then she has been abroad, to the Pacific Coast and in all of the large American cities. Her name is in big type on the posters, and she is referred to as a prima donna.

I wonder if her memory ever takes her back to the little back room where she used to sing songs for a dollar a night?