Stay Where You Belong

He threw an apple through a window—Thus began a romance that really became a smash when She threw an apple through a window

RICHARD CONNELL February 1 1941

Stay Where You Belong

He threw an apple through a window—Thus began a romance that really became a smash when She threw an apple through a window

RICHARD CONNELL February 1 1941

Stay Where You Belong

He threw an apple through a window—Thus began a romance that really became a smash when She threw an apple through a window


DANGER RED, that bold shade stylish last season. was the original color of the girl’s handbag. Now it had faded to a safe pink. In its youth the bag had pretended to be patent leather; but lately it had begun to crack under the strain.

In its change purse was one dime and one nickel.

Miss Annie Morney took out the nickel and put it down on the restaurant counter to pay her check.

Of all the little luncheries in the streets behind New York’s biggest railroad station, this was the litt lest. It was called the Busiest Bee, though it wasn’t. There was nobody in it that night but Annie Morney; its owner and staff. I. Gold; and a few flies.

“Have another cup coffee?” asked I. Gold.

“Yes,” Annie said; then quickly made it “No.”

“It wouldn’t cost you a cent,” I. Gold said, and refilled her cup. “Where you from?”

“Me? Oh, I'm a New Yorker.”

“Lies you shouldn’t tell an old man.” he said, and smiled. “1 wasn’t born here either. How long you been here?”

“One year, two weeks and a day.”

“From where?”

“The West.”


"Nothing hapjxmed there.”

"When a man says that about a place he means there's no money there.” observed I. Gold. “A girl means there’s no nice young fellas. 'Fry a piece fruit cake. Do me please a big favor and try just one small free sample fruit cake. I’d like to know should I stock this new brand.”

I le cut off a slice and set it before Annie.

“Been out of work long?” he enquired.

Annie stared at I. Gold.

"How do you know I'm out of work?” she asked.

“I know things,” said I. Gold blandly. “Is good the cake?”

“Awful good.”

He evicted a fly from the pie cage.

“Ninety-nine pounds.” he remarked.

“Of what?” Annie asked.


“A hundred and three.” Annie said. “I'm not very big. but I’m a good worker. I'm wiry. Back home I did all the work and helped with the chickens and the cows. too. I'm a good milker.”

“You could be the best even, and not find much work on Third Avenue," said I. Gold.

“I'll work for just my keep.”

“A job I couldn’t give you,” he said. “The overhead I couldn’t stand.”

“Do you. maybe, know anybody who wants a girl?" “For my own relatives I can’t find jobs,” he said.

“Guess I'm lucky I can go back home and keep house for Uncle Lafe.” said Annie. Her eyes were bleak.

“Even less you’ll like it now.” I. Gold cut her another slice of fruit cake.

“I—I couldn’t hold any more.” Annie protested.

“A couple crumbs you could push in, maybe,” said I. Gold. “I got to know from a customer does it dunk good.” “I mustn’t miss my train. It goes at nine forty-nine.” “Time you got yet to eat a whole goose,” he said. “Stay sitting. It would be a favor. Nobody likes to go into a lunch room which is empty. How did you lose your job?" “I did something bad.” said Annie Morney.

“Maybe you only done something young.” I. Gold smiled a wise, old smile.

Moodily Annie Morney dunked the fruit cake.

“Did the boss make fresh with you?” asked I. Gold.

“Oh, no,” said Annie earnestly. “It wasn't like that at all.”

“It’s like that often.” stated I. Gold. He studied Annie. “But.” said Annie, her small face grave, “I'm a Brand That was Snatched from the Burning and Weighed in the Balance and found Wanting.”

“Riddles you’re asking me?” demanded I. Gold.

"That’s what the Misses Condit said. The ladies I worked for. They’re twin sisters. And they live in a wonderful house,” went on Annie. “All big and marble, like a bank. It's got an elevator, and a burglar alarm and so many spare rooms they don’t know what to do with them.”

“They could take boarders.” said I. Gold. “How did a greenhorn like you catch a job with such fancy people?” “They knocked me down.” Annie said. “With their car. It works by electricity and you steer it like a vacuum cleaner. It doesn't have a horn; it has a bell. I was walking around, looking for work, and I was crossing Madison Avenue and I didn’t hear them ring the bell so”

“How much did you get?” asked I. Gold. “When you sued them?”

OH. I wasn’t hurt enough to sue anybody. It was my fault.” Annie said. “I got confused. They took me to their house and gave me all the tea and toast I could eat. and I said I'd spent all the money I’d saved to come to New York and if they would, please, give me a job. I'd work awful hard. They went over in a corner and whispered a long time, and then they said yes. they d let me

work for them; but I must remember I was on probation.”

“I got a no-good nephew on it now." said I. Gold. “Did they treat you good?”

“They were wonderful to me. They never got cross and yelled at me. when I did something dumb. They’d say, ‘Somebody should be more careful.’ They don't use. bad language, or smoke, or drink. They’re really awful good.”

“With their kind of money I could be a saint.” I. Gold said. “Believe me, young lady, you had luck. You could of been run into by an empty taxi. Listen, you didn’t poison those refined ladies, did you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Would they maybe take you back?”

“Maybe. They like to forgive people.”

I. Gold reached for the telephone.

“Call them up.” he said. “Tell them you’re sorry. Tell ’em you didn’t mean to do anything wrong. You just weren’t yourself,” I. Gold urged.

“But that’s the trouble—I was.” said Annie.

“Be smart.” said I. Gold. “Make up with those ladies. You could live soft on Fifth Avenue till you’re old as me. Older, maybe.”

“If I went back to them I wouldn’t want to live that long,” said Annie, nearer tears.

“Some parties don’t know what side their bed is buttered on.” he said. “When a girl is eighteen years of age she should look ahead."

“I'm twenty.”

“You could be twenty-two even and still have a future.” said I. Gold. “So look — you go back to the job and behave good and in fifteen-twenty years, maybe, what happens? Even the most refined ladies got to do one thing. They got to die. So they do the one job they can’t hire anybody else todo, and leave you a fortune.”

“I don't want a fortune,” said Annie Mornev.

From the lips of I. Gold came a "Tsk, tsk, tsk. tsk, tsk.”

“I just want to be in New York,” Annie said, “with lots of all sorts of people around me and lots of all sorts of things happening all the time, some of them to me. I'm crazy about New York.”

“You could be double crazy about it and it wouldn't marry you,” said I. Gold. “But I bet there’s plenty young fellas here who would. Didn’t you get any offers?”


“Why didn’t you take it?”

“It doesn’t matter much now,” said Annie.

“You better have another cup coffee.” said I. Gold. He got it for her and asked, “What line is the fella in—the fella that doesn’t matter much now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s his name?”

“John. I don’t know his last name,” Annie said.

“What else don’t you know about him?” asked I. Gold.

“All I know—” replied Annie, “is that he is in love with me.”

“For a girl, that’s enough.” said I. Gold. “You love this fella?”

“I guess I’m in love with him.” Annie said. “He seems to be the sort of man I always hoped I’d meet and marry; but you see I don’t really know him although I know him better than anybody I really know, if you know what I mean. But,” she added, “I don’t suppose you do.”

“Was I born with white whiskers?” burst out I. Gold.

“Listen, when I was a greenhorn like you, fresh from the country—but the old country —came spring to me, too.”

“I'm not going to think about John,” Annie said. “I’m going to forget all about him.”

“You could try,” said I. Gold. “You could try till the cows come home and milk themselves; but, when you get here—thump—a real good sock, you feel it as long as you feel anything.”

Once again his hand went toward the telephone.

“If 1 don’t have John here in a half-hour, I was never a salesman,” he said. “What is the number, please?”

“I don’t know.”

“Listen, where did you see this fella?”


“You never saw him at all?” I. Gold was incredulous. “No,” Annie replied. “If John was to walk in here this minute I wouldn’t know him from a —from a—lion.”

LITTLE wrinkles around I. Gold’s eyes began to spell suspicion.

“You took maybe too big a dose of spring,” he said, gently, “and it went to your head. Sometimes it makes lonesome girls, who haven’t got a fella, make a fella up.” “Oh, I didn’t make John up.” said Annie Mornev.

“You dreamed him.” charged I. Gold.

“I did dream about him a lot,” Annie said. “But dreams don't write letters, do they?”

“I never got from one a penny postcard, even.” I. Gold said. “But in this town it could happen.”

From the pocket of her overcoat Annie pulled a plump bundle of papers, chose one at random, and handed it to him. It was a bus transfer, and, pencilled on its back, in a firm male hand, was:

“To My Unknown Love.

Every day was just a day Till I saw you standing there With a dust-rag in your hand And a sunbeam in your hair. Lucky dust-rag in your hand! Happy sunbeam in your hair!

All my skies were starless skies Till I filled my empty dreams With the jewels you wear for eyes: Filled my poor and hungry dreams With the riches in your eyes.”

Every night was just a night;

It was signed:


“Jonno.” muttered I. Gold. “What kind foreigner is ‘Jonno’? ”

Annie answered him by handing him another missive. It was a handbill, smudged and wrinkled as an elderly chimney sweep. I. Gold peered at it through his spectacles and blinked when he read:

I’m a Killer.

Let Me But Your Bests on the Six)t.

Benny the Bugician.

727 Essex Street.

“That’s the wrong side.” cried Annie.

I. Gold turned the handbill over and read:

“Manhattan Miracle by


What sights I've seen! What people!

What wonders by the score !

Each day I say ‘This can’t go on!’

And each day I see more.

But never did I think I’d see In any earthly room A miracle like you. dear-An angel with a broom !


B.S. I’m 27, have held the same good job for five years and have saved some money and myself for the right girl. Now that I havefound you I am so afraid you may not want me. I will not try to meet you until I have a chance to tell you more about me. Keep your window open. JNO.”

“He sounds by me Annie Oakley,” was I. Gold’s verdict. “But he ain't, up-to-date and from girls he knows nothing. With pieces paper this slow-poker makes love! Is love a mail-order business?”

“I guess he’s sort of bashful.” Annie said.

I. Gold eyed the bundle of papers, and said :

“He’s a slow-poker, maybe, but he ain’t fooling. Postage stamps don’t grow on lamp posts.”

“John didn’t mail these to me,” Annie said. “He threw

I first saw light in Texas Upon a village street But though I’m not a gypsy I've gypsy eyes and feet;

So far and wide I’ve wandered; But now I ’ve ceased to roam Except in the great City—

I’m proud to call my home.


“You mean into your room Mr. Bashful-Bants threw letters?”

“He didn’t throw them into my room.” answered Annie. “It’s on the top floor and hasn’t a window—just a skylight. John threw them through the bay window of the Misses Condit’s drawing-room. They were wrapped around apples.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,” said I. Gold. “Such high-class people wouldn’t like having thrown through their windowfruit.”

“They didn’t, but I left the window open every day. The Misses Condit never gave parties or had people to dinner, so they didn’t use the drawing-room.”

“So you used it for a mailbox,” said I. Gold. “When did this Jonno start throwing at you poems?”

“Friday morning, January fifth, at ten minutes past eight,” replied Annie promptly. “The Misses Condit were asleep upstairs. Being delicate, they have to sleep a lot. I was redding up the drawingroom like I did every morning from eight to eight-thirty, because it was on my Plan that way.”

“You had plans?”

“I got one every Monday morning,” Annie told him. “It had on it what I was to do this week, like 6.30, rise, wash and dress: 7.00, feed cats; 7.15, eat breakfast; and so on, till nine at night.”

“After that the time was all yours?”

'VT'ES, TILL ten-thirty. I was redding up the drawing-room,” resumed Annie, “and it was stuffier than most mornings, so I opened the window a little, though it was a ‘Mustn’t.’ ”

I. Gold raised interrogative eyebrows. “When I started to work for the Misses Condit they gave me a list of ‘Musts’ and ‘Mustn’ts,’ ” Annie explained, “like: No. 1, ‘Mustn’t entertain followers on premises;’ No. 2, ‘Mustn’t take food to room. It encourages mice;’ and so forth and so on. There were forty-two.”

“Pfui!” growled I. Gold. “With their income, what’s a mouse?”

“Anyway, I left the window open that morning,” Annie said, “and I was dusting a picture of the Misses Condit’s grandpa when—kerthump!—an apple bounced into the room. I ran to the window and looked out, but there were so many people and cars and things going up and down Fifth Avenue I couldn’t tell who threw it. The apple was wrapped in a laundry list. There was a poem on it. At first I didn’t think it could be for me, but it said, ‘For the lovely little lady with curls of red’—and the other girls are grey and the Misses Condit—”

“Poets are crazy,” broke in I. Gold, “bi t not that crazy.”

“I know it by heart,” Annie said.

She began to recite :

“I’ve passed by your window Each day for a week.

Please pardon a stranger Whose heart’s made him speak.

I saw you one morning,

And instantly knew My searching was over,

My wish had come true.

Of you I know nothing Not even your name But something inside me —”

I. Gold held up a stop-signal hand.

“I got the idea,” he said. “In a telegram he could put it all—I’m crazy for you. Object matrimony. How’s chances? Love. Jonno.’ I’ll bet he ain’t much of a businessman.”

“He’s a poet,” said Annie, with some spirit.

“What’s the difference, if he’s got a job?” rejoined I. Gold. “Say, how could it be you didn’t catch him throwing at you poems?”

“I tried to,” said Annie, “but my ‘Plan’ kept me busy away from the front of the house most of the day, and I had to be. awful careful. I didn’t want the Misses Corwbt to find out and think I was ungrattMul. They worried about me enough

as it was. They didn’t worry about Cook, or Gladys or Julia, the other maids. They'd got over men. I didn’t know what to do about John. My day off was every other Thursday from noon till nine, and the Misses Condit gave me an ‘Improvement List,’ with places on it like museums full of stuffed animals and picture.shows, the kind that don’t move. But, after Friday, January fifth, I didn’t improve any more. I walked up and down Fifth Avenue, and all over, and I looked at every man I passed and lots of them smiled, and some of them spoke, but none of them was John; but I heard from him every day, and New York got nicer and nicer until the day before yesterday.

“The Misses Condit were feeling even more delicate than usual, and Cook said they always did when their lawyer came to tell them how much income tax they must pay. I was sorry for the Misses Condit.

“They began to talk with Judge Van Dorn, and I went into the drawing-room and opened the window because lately John had been throwing poems in at night; but when they buzzed me up with the coffee that night, it was not to the library but to the drawing-room. The Misses Condit didn’t bellow at me for leaving the window open. They don’t bellow. They just said, very politely, ‘Somebody forgot Mustn’t No. 9.’ I closed the window and passed the coffee.

I was handing Judge Van Dorn a cup when there was a crash and something busted through the window pane and hit the judge smack on his nose. It was a popcorn bag with something hard in it. The judge made me give him what had hit him on the nose. It was one of John’s apples and on the bag was one of John’s messages, and the judge read it right out loud in a very angry voice.

‘Sweetheart to be, I hope:

Tonight I must know my fate. I’ll be in the White Dot Restaurant —the one on Third Avenue near 72nd at nine. All I ask is that you just come and let me talk to you for a while. I’ll be the party in the blue suit that’s eating an apple. Please, please come, for, if you don’t come, I will know that you do not want to have me for a friend whose intentions are serious and I will bother you no more with poems and so forth as my heart will be too broken to do anything but dream sad dreams of the lovely little redheaded angel who opened the door of heaven a little for me, and then shut it in my face. I am, I hope, your,


“They all looked at me and I looked at the floor. The Misses Condit didn’t get sore. They said, ‘You may go, Annie,’ and I said, ‘Oh, thank you,’ but they didn’t mean ‘out.’ ‘Wait in the pantry,’ they said. ‘We will ring when we want you.’ I said, ‘Excuse me, very much, but it’s nearly nine and he’ll be waiting,’ and they said, ‘We will discuss this matter with you presently.’ So I went back to the pantry.

FINALLY they buzzed me up. The judge was gone. The Misses Condit were always polite, even when no company was there. They smiled in a sweet sad way and said, ‘Did somebody forget ‘Mustn’t No. 1?’ and I said, ‘But, ma’ams, I never entertained him on the premises,’ and they said, ‘Who introduced him to you?’ and I said, ‘He did,’ and they said, ‘Dear, dear, dear!' Then they talked a long, long time about men. They didn’t believe in them. Finally they said that if I gave this person any encouragement, they’d te very, very distressed. ‘Now, go to your room,’ they said, ‘and siDend an hour Maclean's Magazine, February I, 194

before you retire, thinking over our little talk about men.’

“I went up to my room and lay down, and looked at the moon through the skylight, and thought. Then, all of a sudden,

I jumped up, threw off my uniform, and put on the new dress, pale blue with rosebuds, I’d bought after John’s third poem. I tiptoed out of the house and ran all the way to the White Dot Restaurant.

“I looked and I looked and at last I saw a plate piled with apple cores on a table in the corner. Nobody was at the table. It was five minutes past eleven. I sat down and waited and waited, but John didn’t come back. At two o’clock I went home. It was raining, and my rosebuds began to run, but I didn’t care.

“I’d left the service door unlocked, though that was a ‘Mustn’t’; but I hadn’t thought to turn off the burglar alarm. Bells began to ring like fury. Lights flashed on. The Misses Condit came down, but they didn’t bawl me out. All they said was, ‘Good night, Annie.’

“Being delicate, the Misses Condit always had breakfast in bed, so this morning at ten sharp I took up their toast and cocoa. They had two cups before they said a word. They just sat in bed looking and looking. Then they said, ‘Annie, we think, for your own sake, you’d better go back home.’ I said, ‘Please, let me stay with you. I don’t want to go away from New York;’ and they said, ‘Since we cannot remove its temptations from you, it is our duty to remove you from them, before it is too late.’ I began to cry. I cried a little and said, ‘I don’t want to go. I love John,’ and they said, ‘Poor, trusting child! We’ll deal with this rake. Tell us his name and address.’ I said I didn’t know John’s last name, but his first name was John, and they said, ‘An alias, no doubt;’ and I said I didn’t know where he lived, but if they’d please let me stay I’d look and look till I found him. They said, ‘In New York there are more than three million men and most of them are named John. You might search for years and not find this particular John, whose name is probably Peter, anyway. The scoundrel!’

“I was crying so I couldn’t get out words, only gulps. But at last I got hold of some words and said, ‘John isn’t a scoundrel and I don’t think what he did is wrong.’ The Misses Condit made clucks. Then it is just as well that you are not going to live in a large city,’ they said ; and they drank some more cocoa. Pretty soon they said, ‘We will place this matter in the hands of the police. Annie, describe him !’ ‘I don’t know him from a hill of beans.’ I said, and they said, ‘And what, pray, were you doing until nearly three in the morning?’ and I said, ‘Just waiting, ma’ams,’ and they let out sighs. ‘But, there are still some three million men in New York,’ they said, ‘so it is not the place for a girl of your type,’ and they said that I'd better not try to deceive them and stay in N.ew York after I left their house because they would tell the cops on me and they’d put me in a place they have here for girls who have no money, work, or friends. So I packed up and asked for my money, but they said somebody might be tempted, so they’d mail it to me, and I should remember what men are, and good-by. I came down and waited in the station and it got to be after dinner and I felt like a cup of coffee. So here I am, but not for long. I wish—oh—never mind.”

Her lip began to tremble.

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T. GOLD held out a huge handkerchief

toward Annie Morney.

“I’m not going to cry any more,” Annie said.

“If I had to go back to my home town, I’d cry,” I. Gold declared. “But quarts.”

He cracked down on some bandit flies.

“Listen,” he said, “advice I’m not giving. I’m just telling you a person ought to stay where she belongs. But, first, you got to know where that is. I come from a village in—in—well, in a country where today death is a pleasure. It was a goose town. They raise and talk nothing else; strictly geese. With Poppa business was good. I could be a big goose man. They tack a goose’s foot to the floor so all he’s gotta do is eat and get fat. So, one day when I was eighteen years of age, I am tacking down a goose and something which was bubbling in me came to a boil. I said, ‘Goose, I’m your brother. The only difference between you and me is: I can’t lay eggs. My feet are tacked to the floor too. Some persons are tacked down and like it. Other persons, no. Their feet you can tack down but not their minds. If you got a city mind, you don’t belong in the country. So, good-by, Brother Goose.’ Pretty soon I’m going to the depot carrying my bundle, and the goose people quacked, ‘Such a dumb-head that you are to leave a good home.’ And I said, ‘Who’s leaving home? By me it’s going home.’ And it was.

“In the cellar of the ship with me were lots other born New Yorkers, from Naples, Munich, Krakow, Odessa and Cork. I took right away a walk up Broadway and my head was so high I got clouds in my ears. I was where I belonged. For me New York had everything—but work. I hunted eastside, westside, all around the town, and I loved every sidewalk in New York; but you can’t eat sidewalks. Then comes a letter from a relative out west who’s got well-to-do out there and owns now a big ranch and a store. I should come out and run for him the store and be some day his partner, this relative says, and a smart young fella like me could be well-todo in no time, and die rich, even. In the letter is a railroad ticket to the dinky burg where he lives. I get on the train and I feel terrible, and it ain’t strictly from hunger. The train goes west but I don’t. I got off at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. The farthest out of town I’ve been since then is the Bronx. I sold the ticket and went into the restaurant business. It took me two years to pay back my relative. Big profits you don’t make pushing a pretzel wagon.

“That relative got what he wanted. He died rich. I won’t. But I’ve lived rich. In the bank I haven’t much; but I got a fortune here—” I. Gold tapped his head. “In here I got fifty years of wonderful living in a place where I belong.”

He consulted his fat, old-fashioned watch.

“You gotta go now,” he said gruffly.

He rubbed an apple on the sleeve of his alpaca coat, popped it into a bag and gave it to Annie Morney.

“On the train you could get hungry,” he said.

“Yes,” said Annie.

Suddenly she leaned across the counter and kissed I. Gold on the forehead just south of the skull cap.

“You’re so good,” said Annie Morney.

She ran out of the Busiest Bee. She went into the station. A clock told her she had ten minutes to make lier train. She marched resolutely toward the line of ticket windows. The ticket sellers, penned in little barred coops, made her think of the Zoo she’d never see again.

“Have we a ticket for Miss Annie Morney? Yes, indeedy.” The caged clerk gave Annie a service-with-a-smile smile and pushed her ticket through the grille.

“Enjoy your visit to New York, miss?” he enquired.

Annie didn’t seem to hear him. Her small face was screwed into a tight frown, and her blue eyes were punching holes in the ticket. Then her hand went out toward the ticket and pushed it back.

“I'd like the money instead, please,” Annie said firmly.

“Certainly,” said the clerk. “A cheque will be sent to you in a few days.”

“Couldn’t I have the money now, please?” Annie quavered.

“No, sorry. Against regulations.”

"I’ll come for it,” Annie said.

“But haven’t you an address?”

“Yes,” Annie said, “New York.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t enough.”

“It’s enough for me,” said Annie Morney.

She turned and marched out of the station.

AT THE corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street, Annie stopped. A light mist blurred the lights on the river of traffic flowing past her. She opened her ex-red bag. Her assets stood at one dime and one apple. An uptown bus swooped through the colored gloom and came to a stop directly in front of her.

“All aboard, please!” the bus conductor said.

Several people got on the bus and one of them was Annie. She surrendered her dime and became the lone passenger on the upper deck. The impulse which made her board the bus was cousin to the obscure inner prompting which makes a criminal revisit the scene of his crime. Fifth Avenue streamed past her. Presently she saw the Condit mansion. There was a bus stop at its front, door. Lights were on in the drawing-room; and, as her bus nestled up to the curb, Annie could see the Misses Condit in conference with Judge Van Dorn.

A new pane had been put in the window, Annie noted. Her mild eyes became less mild. She opened the ex-red bag, took out her lipstick, then the apple and, on the paper in which it was wrapped, she printed as large as she could, one word : NUTS.

The bus gave a little quiver as it gathered itself to go. Annie Morney stood up, and, as hard as ever she could, hurled the apple straight at the new window pane.

She heard a ringing crash of breaking glass and the Misses Condit’s shrill squeal of distress. Then the bus struck its stride and bore her away and Annie sat down again. She heard a sound quite close to her. Behind her a man spoke.

"Why did you do it?”

Annie didn’t look up. “Do what?” she asked.

“Break that window.”

Her eyes crept around and saw uniform trousers. They were not, she was glad to see, the law’s bluethey were the bus company’s green.

“What window?”

“The one you just broke.”

Annie’s spurt of spirit fizzled out abruptly. A few seconds before she had defied the Misses Condit and all the Condits in the cosmos; but now she felt incapable of defying a dove.

“Yes, I did it,” she said, in a wilted voice.


“Because -because-—none of your business.”

“I must know why,” the man insisted.

“Go ahead and give me to the cops,” said Annie. "I won’t tell them, either.”

“What did you throw?”

“Just an apple.”

“I’d give a lot to know why,” he said.

Annie looked up at him.

He had a plain, quiet sort of face, and she thought, “He’d be real nice looking if he didn’t have such sad eyes.” The sad eyes, when they saw' Annie looking up, suddenly stopped looking sad. They looked wildly startled; and they looked wildly happy.

Annie wondered what made him change so; but she did not have to wonder long. She saw his badge. Bus conductors wear badges with their names on them. A certain formality is given the names by the fact that they are preceded by “Mister.” E.g., Mr. Chas. Wilson, Mr. Jas. J. Hogan, etc.

The name on this bus conductor’s badge was