SHORT STORY.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17170, 13 October 1923, Page 4 (Supplement)

SHORT STORY.

THE CHRONICLES OF MARY’N HURRELL. “ GETTING ON.” No. 11. (Written for the “Star 55 by MRS E. BAJZEEN.) T was very early at my workplace Good morning. Miss de Drew.’ 1 I said nervously to my employer. Her face was sleep-stained, as before, when J had arranged with her about the situation, but this time 1 was prepared lor the vision and was able to Keep mv eyes better mannered. Good morning.’ y she answered, ami she added, “ I knew you’d be early this morning; new brooms sweep clean.” I wanted to tell Miss de Drew that I intended being early for my work a! ways, even when I was “an “old broom.” but 1 found my tongu • woultln t work, so I followed her silently into- the workroom. For more than one reason the inside of this room will ever remain vivid in my memory. It was a fairly large room. The wails were covered with fashion-pictures from the “ Young Ladies’ Journal.” the floor was bare (1 subsequently had to pick pris from its crevices) : two long tables, one under the window, and the other between the door and the fireplace ; two large cupboards; a long mirror nailei to the wall: a jug and wash-basin in side the door on a soap box; a few Windsor chairs; and two wire figures for dress-fittings. A cheerless room m which to work eight hours out of each working day of the week, one might think, but it was far from l>eing cheer-

j less to me. Indeed. I never,had one [ dull moment for the whole six weeks | that T remained in Miss de Drew’s employ—the novelty of it being mv first buffet with the “outside” world, ard the queer “ Mystery” kept my life, full of an exciting interest. It wa-i Dale Martin, the office boy next door, who first told me about the Mystery— • a sort of dark secret which concerned my employers. Hut you will hear it from Dale’s own lips when 1 go outside presently to sweep the footpath. . . . When T had put on mv new “grown-up” apron with its pinned bib. Miss de Drew in- . traduced me to her sister, who was a junior partner in the firm. I supposed “This is my sister. You are to call her Miss Delay, to save confusion in tVi I workroom,” she added. What was Miss Daisy like? Well, she seemed hut a younger edition or Mi-s de Drew herself. T thought. Both ladies were probably not much past I thirty at that time (Miss Daisy might have been a little less), and when they were “done up” they certainly pro sented an up-to-date, stylish appear ar.ee ; but to the pitiless and critical eyes of youth they were just a “ pair of old maids.” “ What did you sav vour name is?” Miss de Drew asked. “ Marvanne Agnes Kurrell.” I replied. “Oh,” she said, ” Miss Daisy will show you what to do. Miss Hurrell.” Miss Hurrell! ” Surely,” I thought, “ she doesn’t intend calling me, 4 Miss.” If so, well; T felt sure that I could never bear the sarcasm of such a proceeding, and I found courage to protest. “ Please, Miss de Drew, won’t you call me Mary’n—they do at home.” Miss de Drew was very rigid. She stared at me coldly. “It is not out custom to use the Christian names of our employees.” She said in tones of finality. So that little matter settled, Miss Daisy began at once to instruct Miss Hurrell in a set of preliminary duties which were more than a million removes from “ learning the dressmaking trade.” .... Here was where 1 they kept the broom and dust-pan, j would I please take them off the peg and follow? We went into a tiny fit-ting-room which was divided from the shop by a heavy red curtain on rings and a rod. I must sweep the shop and fitting-room and the passage to> the workroom ; then dust everything ; then go outside and sweep the footpath in front of the shop, and dust the window and its frame work. Thus, by the simple expedient of wading through my duties faithfully, I at last came across Dale Mar bill, outside his shop, also sweeping the footpath. Now, as Dale Martin was destined to play a not unimportant part in the drama of my life, I suppose I ought to have felt some presentment or thrill of warning run through my being at this cur first meeting. Instead, I just thought he looked an ordinary youth with an extraordinarily large mouth, and horrid red hair. Nevertheless I felt drawn to him, because lie was young too, and something in the nature of a relief from tlie Misses dc Drew. W© quite easily introduced ourselves to each other. We became chums in no time; and when 1 told him about being called “ Miss,” he waxed most comfortingly svmpathetic. “ What a bloomin’ lot of rot,” he said, “ calling a kid like you ‘Miss.’ ” I heartily agreed with him, of course, but I didn’t want him to think I was too much of a “kid” all the same--1 wanted to be worthy of his patronage at least. “ I'm fourteen, you know.” I sub- i ini t ted. •Are you?” said he, “well I'm nearly sixteen ; but my boss don't- try any • Mistering ’ business on me.” ‘‘What are you learning to be?” I asked him. “Oh. nothin’ much.” said Dale. “ my boss is a house and land agent —but T’m looking out for something better than that for myself T’m going to have a shot at being a detective,” he ended, confidingly. Curled round the brcomhandle he held I noticed a paper-covered ‘ Deadwood Diclc-” and 1 concluded Dal© had imbibed a taste for that class of literature. And I soon found out that his welcome to myself that morning was not wholly disinterested, as you may judge from the following conversation : “ I wonder if you will like them?” he said, referring to my employers. “ I think so.” Dale grinned at me, and asked: “ Don’t you think they are funny old i things?” A sudden sense of loyalty made me say, “No, I don’t.” Dale laughed scornfully, and 1 felt my face get warm. ” You shouldn’t tell fibs,” he said. “ Well, you shouldn’t be cheeky,” 1 retorted.

He came a step or two nearer to me and said: “If you don’t think they’re funny, everybody else does.” “ But why?” I demanded. “ Why” he repeated. “ For lots of things. You just ask the Mannings— Bob or Ken—where do Daisy and Harriet dream? and I bet you they'd laugh.” Harriet and Daisy?” “ Yes, the old one’s Harriet, and the other one’s Daisy.” “ You shouldn’t speak so disrespectfully of grown-up people,” I said. ‘‘Oh, go on!” he laughed scornfully at me again, and I began to think he was not nice enough to speak to. He saw he had made a mistake, though, and he altered his tone and manner at once. lie made a sort of apology, and added with' great magnanimity, that he didn't mind the “ poor old guys ” really, they were harmelss enough, he supposed, only he’d give a week’s wages to know where they slept. “ Why?” I asked in bewilderment, “don’t they sleep in a bed?” If they do, then, where is it? That’s the mystery which I have been trying to solve for the last three months.” He tapped the “ Deadwood.” as he went on. and told me that there was a detective in that book who would have cleared up the whole mystery long since—but as this was Dale’s first case he was naturally rather slow at solving the business. He had hunted down three clues concerning the affair, which were given him by my predecessor (who was a “ silly little kid with fur on her

teeth,”) but all to no purpose. Ho was just telling me how xo act my part in the mystery, when his boss called him! And 1 went back to the workroom a prey to a tantalising curiosity. A hundred times a day, alter 1 knew about tho mystery, 1 used to mentally account tor the entire occupancy of that building, and, finding there was not any place left free which could possibly be used as a sleeping apartment for 1 he- Miss de Drew’s, l was always forced to the one conclusion—that they slept in their wrappers sitting up in the workroom chairs! j But when 1 told Dale this, he told ime not to be silly. In fact he was always impatient and contemptuous of my suggestions and my reports. I still think that I was deserving of more sympathy than that potential detective ever gave me on the subject of his first case. 1 was as keen as himself after “ clues,” and I reported on the affairs daily bo him, until one evening my sojourn at the Miss de Drew’s ended simultaneous with the solving of the great mystery itself-—but this is anticipating what does not come into the chronicling until a little later on I used to stare ac Mis s Daisy and wish, in my desperation, that I had enough courage to ask her straight out: “Where do you sleep, Miss Daisy? For pity’s sake tell me?” Bat i dared not risk being sent home lor not minding my own busiThe Miss de Drew’s made no secret of their living in the place, although they must have known how bothered some people must be trying to find out how and where? However, the weary problem of ** Where do they sleep?” occupied my mind much more than another pertinent- one which my mother often asked me in the evenings: “Are you getting on at your trade, Mary’n?” Mv trade! But, of course, that was after all the main reason for my presence at Miss de Drew’s every day ; and I would strive to give my. mother a rational answer, something as fol- “ Oh, ves ; I can sew buttons on now find leave a loose tag to them.” or “ I can do overcasting stitches nearlv small j enough to suit.” Poor mother ! She never knew what a tremendously full life I was living just then, but she would often gaze, at me and wonder how soon I would lie in “getting on” well enough to help her with the sewing at home: or how much longer it would be ere I earned My promotion in wagts from two and sixpence per week to five shillings. I will give the elucidation of the “ Mystery ” in another chronicle. (To be continued.)