Beta Book

He was always bending over bills and columns
of figures at a desk behind the stock-room. He was a meek little
bachlor--a person of inconspicuous blue ready-made suits, and a
small unsuccessful mustache.
To-day--historians have established the date as April 9,
1910--there had been some confusing mixed orders from the
Wisconsin retailers, and Mr. Wrenn had been "called down"
by the office manager, Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle. He needed
the friendly nod of the Nickelorion ticket-taker. He found
Fourteenth Street, after office hours, swept by a dusty
wind that whisked the skirts of countless plump Jewish girls,
whose V-necked blouses showed soft throats of a warm brown.
Under the elevated station he secretly made believe that he was
in Paris, for here beautiful Italian boys swayed with trays of
violets; a tramp displayed crimson mechanical rabbits, which
squeaked, on silvery leading-strings; and a newsstand was heaped
with the orange and green and gold of magazine covers.
"Gee!" inarticulated Mr. Wrenn.


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