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"Perhaps he doand hear me," she murmured. Two well-dressed women advanced, chattering gayly. "Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun." One of the women paused, murmuring to her companion, and from her purse extracted a yellow ticket which she gave to Mrs. Hooven with voluble explanations. But Mrs. Hooven was confused, she did not understand. What could the ticket mean?
After a weary walk, she came out upon Van Ness Avenue, near its junction with Market Street. "Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun." "Mammy, mammy, I'm hungry." It was Friday night, between seven and eight. The great deserted avenue was already dark. A sea fog was scudding overhead, and by degrees descending lower.
She tried to remember how tramps who had appeared at her back door on Los Muertos had addressed her; how and with what formula certain mendicants of Bonneville had appealed to her. Then, having settled upon a phrase, she approached a whiskered gentleman with a large stomach, walking briskly in the direction of the town. "Say, den, blease hellup a boor womun." The gentleman passed on.
The women went on their way. The next person to whom she applied was a young girl of about eighteen, very prettily dressed. "Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun." In evident embarrassment, the young girl paused and searched in her little pocketbook. "I think I have I think I have just ten cents here somewhere," she murmured again and again.
At last, a solitary pedestrian came into view, a young man in a top hat and overcoat, walking rapidly. Mrs. Hooven held out a quivering hand as he passed her. "Say, say, den, Meest'r, blease hellup a boor womun." The other hurried on. The fish course was grenadins of bass and small salmon, the latter stuffed, and cooked in white wine and mushroom liquor. "I have read your poem, of course, Mr.
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