money I blew on the books. And that's all there is to tell, except my name."
Mrs. Cowgill waited, perking up a little with expectancy, to receive it.
"Louise Gardner," the girl introduced herself. "Maybe that's it, and maybe it isn't."
"That ain't nobody's business but your own," Mrs. Cowgill granted, with easy indifference, as if accustomed to such things right along.
"That's right!" Banjo declared with strong emphasis. He seemed ready to stand in defense of her name, true or false, against all aspersion and doubt.
"You never waited table," Mrs. Cowgill said. She spoke with something like regretful disparagement, as if the young woman had neglected a duty, or an opportunity at least, for which there was no remedy now.
"I could do it. Is there a job here? Do you want a girl?"
"I can only afford to pay five dollars a week, room with my daughter—she's about your age. It may not look like much, but it beats trampin' around in the hot sun."
"Not anything like it," said Louise Gardner.
"I'll not say it ain't heavy and hard while it lasts, but the rush don't last long."
"That will be all right," Louise said, cheerfully.
Banjo looked at her queerly. What did she mean? Was she going to take that job?
"There's time for a girl to do her washin' and sew-
