class="smcap">Without References

GOOD REFERENCES

CHAPTER I

Mary Decides

There was only one man in the office of the Brain Workers' Exchange and he was an obscurity who "kept" the books in the farthest corner of the room. Girls of various ages and women of all ages crowded him remorselessly out of the picture, so that when it was possible to obtain even a glimpse of him he served merely as a memorandum of the fact that there are, after all, two sexes. A few of the girls and women sat at desks; they were the working staff of the Exchange. One of them was also the owner and manager.

Outside a railing that divided the room there were a few chairs, very few, because it was not the policy of the Exchange to maintain a waiting-room for clients. It was a quiet and brisk clearing house, not a loitering place nor a shop-window for the display of people who had brains to sell by the week or the month. The clients came and went rather rapidly; they were not encouraged to linger. Sometimes they were sent for, and after those occasions they usually disappeared from the "active-list" and became inconsequential incidents in the history of the Exchange. The Exchange had pride in the fact that it made quick turnovers of its stock; nothing remained very long on the shelves. And in times such as these there were no bargain sales in brains.

Mary Wayne paused for a second on the threshold as her eyes swiftly reviewed the details of the picture; then she closed the door gently behind her, conscious of a distinct feeling of encouragement. She had been apprehensive; she had faced an expected sense of humiliation. There had been in her mind an idea that she was about to become one of a clamorous crowd. But things were very much otherwise in the Brain Workers' Exchange—gratefully so.

She walked over to a desk, where a small brass sign said "Registry," sensing that this must be her first port of call. A young woman who sat at the desk glanced up, saw a stranger, reached for a form-card that lay on top of a neatly stacked pile and dipped a pen.

"Name, please," she said.

"Mary Wayne."

"Address?"

The address was given; it was that of a boarding-house in the Eighties, but Mary Wayne hoped that it would not be so identified in the mind of the recording angel, if, indeed, she should prove to be such.

"Married?"

"Oh, no," hastily. It seemed an absurd question, but the answer went down in a place left blank by the printer.

"Age?"

"Twenty-two."

"Occupation?"

"Stenographer." The answer had a faint note of defiance.

"Expert? We handle only experts, you know."

"Expert," said Mary Wayne.

There were other questions. Had she a knowledge of office management? No. Of bookkeeping? No. Of foreign languages? She knew French; a little Spanish. Did she understand filing systems? She thought so. Education? There had been two years in college; necessity compelled her to give up the remainder.

The woman behind the desk surveyed her from hat to shoes in a rapid, impersonal glance, then wrote something in another blank space. Mary wildly yearned to know what it was, but checked the impulse to lean forward and see.

"Now, your references, please."

"I have no references."

There was a sudden chill in the manner of the recording angel. She pushed the form-card away from her, so that it teetered perilously on the edge of the desk. If it passed the brink there was nothing to save it from the waste-basket below.

"All registrants must furnish references. Perhaps you did not observe the sign on the wall."

Mary had not seen it, but she now looked at it, apologetically.

"I didn't know," she said. "I'm sorry. But I can explain very easily."

"We never deviate from our rule, Miss Wayne. We have our reputation to sustain. References are absolutely essential."

"But don't you see——"

"It would only waste your time and mine. We recommend no person for employment unless she can furnish at least two references. We even require employers to furnish them, unless they are known to us."

The recording angel was no longer angelic. She was polite, perhaps, yet peremptory. With a little gesture of finality, she tipped the card into the waste-basket. Mary caught her breath, almost desperately. References! Oh, she had heard that word before. A dozen times it had risen to mock her, like a grinning specter.

If asked to spell it, she felt that she would write it thus:

"D-o-o-m."

"But, please—please, let me explain about the references."

"Sorry. It would be quite useless."

"I can assure you I'm absolutely—all right," pleaded Mary. "I'm really a good stenographer—an expert. I'm honest, and——"

She paused in the humiliation of having to say things that ought to be obvious to anybody.

But the woman simply shook her head.

"You must listen; oh, surely you will. I suppose I should have explained in the beginning, but it didn't seem necessary. I didn't understand. This is the first time I was ever in—in—an intelligence office."

The recording angel stiffened in her uncompromising desk-chair, and Mary instantly knew she had given unpardonable offense.

"This is not an intelligence office, Miss Wayne. An intelligence office is a place for cooks, chambermaids, waitresses, laundresses, chauffeurs, gardeners, and stable-hands. This is an exchange which deals in brains only, plus experience and good character. It is not even an employment agency. Good day, Miss Wayne."

Mary recoiled from the desk, numbed. She had sealed her own fate in two blundering words. She had not meant to say "intelligence office"; it slipped out in an evil moment of inadvertence. It was a forgotten phrase of childhood, come down from the days when her mother employed "help," and now flowing from the tip of her tongue in order to accomplish complete and unmerited disaster.

Dismay and irresolution held her motionless for a moment, outside the inexorable railing that divided the room. It had not yet occurred to her to walk out of the office of the Brain Workers' Exchange; she was thralled in the inertia of an overwhelming despair.

"Good morning, Miss Norcross. Thank you for being prompt."

A woman who sat at another desk was speaking, in crisp, satisfying tones. Mary turned mechanically to observe the person to whom the words were addressed. She saw a girl apparently of her own age crossing the floor with an eager, nervous step; a girl dressed with a certain plain severity that unmistakably helped to give her an air of confidence. Mary was easily as well dressed herself; perhaps more expensively. Yet she felt herself suddenly lacking in every essential quality embodied in the person who had been addressed as "Miss Norcross."

"We have an excellent opportunity for you," the woman at the desk was saying. "That is why I sent an urgent message. A lady wishes a competent, well-bred young woman to perform secretarial work. It is of a social character. She will pay a good salary to the right person. We are giving you the first opportunity because of the unusually good references you possess."

There it was again. References! Mary's soul winced.

"The lady, Miss Marshall—here is her address—is known to us by reputation. We have given her an outline of your qualifications. She will wish, of course, to see your references, so take them with you. She expects you to