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But, after giving Wilfred Rokeby yet another parcel-the next to last one-he managed to put the smile back on his face and say, "Well, that was a long time ago now, and it certainly didn't have anything to do with you."
He wasn't quite right. The only thing Mary regretted was that her father hadn't had more luck. But Pomeroy wouldn't know that, of course. And a lot of people in Rosenfeld still stared and pointed whenever she went by, and probably would for years to come. Someone trying to treat her kindly made a very pleasant novelty, especially when the someone in question was a good-looking young man. "Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?" He sounded honestly puzzled as he gave the postmaster the last package. That made her like him more, not less.
Rokeby went to work with pencil and paper. "Comes to nine dollars and sixteen cents, all told," he said.
"For postage? Can you imagine that?" Mort Pomeroy said, genially astonished, as he paid Rokeby. "I'll take it out of Bob's hide-if he ever finds a job, I will."
"Times are hard," Mary agreed. "Let me have seventy-five cents' worth of stamps, Mr. Rokeby, if you would."
"I can do that," he said, and gave her twenty-five stamps-postage had recently gone up from two cents to three. He put the three quarters she handed him into his cash box. She sighed. The extra twenty-five cents she had to spend on stamps would have paid her way into the theater. Now the money was gone-and gone into the Americans' pockets. One more reason to hate them, she thought.
"Are you in town by yourself?" Pomeroy sounded hopeful.
"I have to meet my mother at the general store," Mary said with much more regret than she'd expected to feel.
His face fell. "Oh. Too bad." He hesitated, then asked, "If I was to come calling on you one day before too long, would that be all right? Maybe you'd like to see a moving-picture show with me?"
"Maybe I would." Mary realized she ought to say more than that. "Yes, I'm sure I would."
"Swell!" Now the grin came back enormously. "I've got an auto. Can I pick you up Saturday night? We'll go to a film, see what else there is to do after that-a dance at the church, or something."
"All… all right." Mary sounded dazed, even to herself. No one had ever shown this kind of interest in her. Her past left her damaged goods. That had always suited her fine-up till this minute. She was ever so glad Mort Pomeroy didn't seem to care who her father was or what he'd done. "Saturday night," she whispered, and hurried out of the post office. Pomeroy and Wilfred Rokeby both stared after her.
C inci
Oscar Marlowe nodded. "Yes, I've been keeping track of everything you've brought in," he answered. Cinci
"It's my job, Mr. Marlowe," said Cinci
''Oh, yes." Marlowe nodded. He ran a pink tongue over that scrawny little excuse for a mustache. "I understand you completely-and agree with you completely, I might add. Even now, though, too many people don't seem to have figured that out. I'm always glad to see someone who has. Let me have your paperwork. The sooner I sign off, the sooner you can be on your way. I don't want to waste your time."
"Got it right here." Scipio handed him the clipboard.
"I expected you would." Marlowe scribbled his name on the forms, making sure he signed in all four necessary spaces. He and Cinci
"Thank you kindly, suh." Cinci
He'd taken only a step or two before Marlowe said, "Here, wait a second." He went behind the counter where he kept his meat on ice, wrapped a package in butcher paper, and thrust it at Cinci
Cinci
"I didn't do it because I had to. I did it because I wanted to." The storekeeper sounded impatient. "If you work hard, you ought to know other people notice. And I do. I'm always glad to see you bringing me loads from the docks and the railroad yard."
"Much obliged." Cinci
His last stop wasn't at a grocery store, but at the offices of the Des Moines Register and Remembrance. The crates he unloaded there were large and heavy. "What is this thing?" he asked the man who took delivery.
"New typesetting machine," the fellow answered. "We'll get the paper out faster than ever."
"That's nice," Cinci
"And we won't need so many compositors," the newspaperman added. Seeing that the word meant nothing to Cinci
"Oh." Cinci
"That isn't settled yet." The newspaperman sounded uncomfortable now. He sounded so uncomfortable, Cinci
"Uh- huh," Cinci
His skepticism must have shown in his voice; the man from the Register and Remembrance turned red. He said, "We'll try, goddammit. We will. What else can we do? We've got to save money wherever we can, because we sure as hell aren't making much."
For that, Cinci
It was only May. There was, as yet, no guarantee Calvin Coolidge would be nominated for a second run at the Powel House. It certainly looked likely, though; no other Democratic hopeful roused much excitement. Cinci
Nobody, by all the signs, thought President Blackford had much chance to win a second term. But the Socialists had made no move to dump him from their ticket. For one thing, not even they were radical enough to jettison a sitting president. For another, no one else from the Socialist Party looked like a wi