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She had been playing second lead at the theater and had had a New York offer. Frank could not understand why she refused it. But Norah did, though she kept the secret from Frank. "Do you know how many talesmen have been called in the Calhoun trial?" Aleta asked, looking up from the newspaper. "There were nearly 1500 in the Ruef case. They called that a record." She laughed.
"Home!" she spoke the word tenderly. "I wonder what it's like ... I've never known." He drew his breath sharply. "Aleta will you marry me?" Her eyes filled but she did not answer. Presently she shook her head. He looked at her dumbly, questioning. "You don't love me, Frank," she said at last. He could not answer her. His eyes were on the ground.
Now and then he saw Aleta, but the subject of their former talk was not resumed. Vaguely he wondered what manner of man was her beloved. Frank resented the idea that he was above her. Aleta was good enough for any man. Bertha was visiting her aunt's home in the East. She had been very restless and capricious just before she went. All women were thus, he supposed. But he missed her.
Frank, with a strange, empty feeling, retraced his way, fought a path by means of sheer will and the virtue of his police badge across Market street, and struck out toward Lafayette Square. Scarcely realizing it, he was bound for Aleta's apartment. A warped shaft had incapacitated the automatic elevator, so he climbed three flights of stairs and found Aleta packing.
Finally Frank had persuaded Aleta to seek a little rest. Despite her protest that sleep was impossible, he had rolled her in one of the borrowed blankets, wrapping himself, Indianwise, in the other. Toward morning slumber had come to them both. Aleta, now awake, smiled at Frank and declared herself refreshed. "What had we better do next?" she questioned. Frank pondered.
Then he hurried to the office, found his notes and for an hour wrote steadily, absorbedly a spectacular tale of superstition, extravagance and financial chaos. As he turned in his copy the editor handed him a slip of paper on which was written: "Call Aleta Boice at once." He sought a telephone, but there was no response. He tried again, but vainly.
But his prophetic eloquence availed him little. Schmitz and all the Union Labor candidates won by a great majority. Frank sought Aleta at the Dusty Doughnut some months later. He was very tired, for the past few days had brought a multitude of tasks. He had counted on Aleta's smile. It seldom failed to cheer him, to restore the normal balance of his mind.
All they want is to have it over." "I guess I feel the same way." Frank's eyes were downcast. Sometimes Frank met Norah France at Aleta's apartment, but she carefully avoided further mention of the topic they had talked of on election night. Frank liked her poetry. With a spirit less morbid she would have made a name for herself he thought. Aleta was doing more and more settlement work.
It was a little time ere she could tell him of the tragedy. The man had been run over, quickly killed. Witnesses had seen him stagger, fall directly in the path of an advancing car. A doctor called it apoplexy. "But I know better," sobbed Aleta, for the tears had come by now. "He never was sick in his life.
They snatched a hurried drink, laved their faces and hands and went on, passing a cracker wagon, filled with big tin containers, and surrounded by a hungry crowd. The driver was passing out crackers with both hands, casting aside the tins when they were empty. "It's like the Millennium," Aleta remarked. "All classes of people herded together in common good will.
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