BLUFFER’S LUCK

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I: UP AGAINST IT

Fog and rain, with the spluttering arclights shining like moons out of the drizzle and a mist; the rattle of wheels on cobbles, soughing of fog-horns down on San Francisco Bay; the far-off din of a cable car gong, and always the dismal patter of rain along the gutter.

A girl stopped at the entrance of a cheap boarding house, where a single electric bulb partly illuminated the faded sign. Her faded old raincoat glistened in the light, and her cheap felt hat leaked drops of water as she glanced up at the sign.

It was not because she was unfamiliar with that sign. Nan Whitlock had passed under it several times a day for a number of months, because it was her home. That is, it was the only home she had, and just now she was wondering how much longer she could call it home.

After a short period of reflection she went inside, passed the dining-room door and started up the stairs. Beneath the raincoat was a small parcel, and she quickly slipped it farther out of sight as a step sounded on the stairs above her.

It was Mrs. Emmett, the landlady, a short, chubby sort of woman, but with features prematurely hardened from forcing payments. Just now she narrowed her eyes and glanced upon Nan Whitlock as she partly blocked the stairs.

“I was just at your room, Miss Whitlock,” she said. “Unless you and Miss Allan pay for that room before breakfast to-morrow, I’ve a new inhabitant for the same.”

“Was—was Miss Allan there?” faltered Nan.

“She was not. I’m tired of promises, and I just heard that Miss Allan’s show closes to-morrow night.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Nan meekly.

“Oh, ye do? And I suppose I was to be left holding the sack, as they say, eh? Well, I’m not. I’ve had her trunk put in storage to-day, and she’ll not get it until the rent is all paid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Emmett.”

“She’ll be sorry, too, I’m thinking. Oh, I don’t mean to be cross about it, but business is business. If I have to, I’ll attach your wages, my dear. With a fly-by-night like Madge Allan, all I can do is take her trunk. You tell her, will ye? And, of course, that means both of ye get out, unless the money is paid. Her with her fine clothes and fur coats, and a taxi at the door almost every night! And she can’t pay twenty dollars rent! Well, you two think it over, my dear. Unless I miss my guess, I’ll have a vacancy after breakfast.”

She stepped aside and walked grandly down the stairs, while Nan hurried on to her room, where she lighted the gas jets, threw off her wet coat and sat down rather heavily. Nan was not pretty, but she had an oval face, wistful gray eyes, and a wealth of wavy auburn hair. Twenty-two her last birthday, and out of a job again.

“Attach my wages,” she said, half aloud. “Fine chance. With it all in my pocket.”

The steam in the radiators clanked furiously for a moment. Nan got to her feet, took a pair of old slippers from under the bed and removed her wet shoes.

Then from a locked drawer in the dresser she took a gas plate, with a long hose, which she attached to one of the gas jets. From the parcel she had carried she produced hamburger steak. From another locked drawer she took a frying-pan, a small coffee-pot, and a box which contained bread, butter, eggs and coffee.

On the wall was a printed warning that the management positively did not allow cooking in the rooms. Nan hung her wet hat over the top of it and proceeded with her cooking. The room was full of the savoury odours when Madge Allan came in. She slammed the door quickly behind her and grinned at Nan.

Madge Allan was a different type than Nan Whitlock. Madge was a tall, willowy blonde, affecting much rouge, flashily dressed. Just now her face was streaked with rain, and her Hudson seal coat looked rather bedraggled.

“Well, I dodged her,” she said triumphantly. “Stood out there in the rain until the noblest Roman of them all went to the kitchen to take a fall out of the cook for using too much shortening in the pie crust, and then I took them stairs four at a time. Hamburger and onions! My Gawd, honey, don’t you ever lose your appetite for dainties like that?”

Nan shrugged her shoulders.

“No dodging it now,” she said rather bitterly. “Lost my job to-day. Cutting down the force, they said. They’ll pay a dividend on what they’ll save on my salary, I suppose.”

“Aw, gee, that’s tough!” Madge flapped her hands dismally against her wet coat. “Canned in the winter, like a—a—what do they can in the winter, Nan? Pshaw, that’s too bad. And my show closes to-morrow night.”

She came over closer to Nan and put a hand on her shoulder affectionately.

“Don’t you worry, kid, I like you a lot, because you never ask questions. One of these days I’m going to fall into some money, and when I do, we’ll—well, you wait. Oh, it won’t be long. Nope, I don’t crave hamburger. Jack Pollock is taking me out to the Cliff House for dinner to-night if I can get out of here without giving up my coat to the landlady.”

“She’s taken your trunk, Madge.”

“My trunk!” Madge whirled around and looked at the corner of the room, where her trunk had been. Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed with anger.

“She told me about it on the stairs,” said Nan slowly. “I haven’t even a trunk for her to take; so she’ll probably put me in jail.”