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By JULIE M. LIPPMANN
1912
If you are one of the favored few, privileged to ride in chaises, youmay find the combination of Broadway during the evening rush-hour, in alate November storm, stimulating—you may, that is, provided you have areliable driver. If, contrariwise, you happen to be of the class whosefate it is to travel in public conveyances (and lucky if you have theprice!) and the car, say, won't stop for you—why—
Claire Lang had been standing in the drenching wet at thestreet-crossing for fully ten minutes. The badgering crowd had beenshouldering her one way, pushing her the other, until, being a strangerand not very big, she had become so bewildered that she lost her headcompletely, and, with the blind impulse of a hen with paresis, dartedstraight out, in amidst the crush of traffic, with all the chancesstrong in favor of her being instantly trampled under foot, or groundunder wheel, and never a one to know how it had happened.
An instant, and she was back again in her old place upon the curbstone.Something like the firm iron grip of a steam-derrick had fastened on herperson, hoisted her neatly up, and set her as precisely down, exactlywhere she had started from.
It took her a full second to realize what had happened. Then, quick as aflash, anger flamed up in her pale cheeks, blazed in her tired eyes.For, of course, this was an instance of "insult" described by "thefamily at home" as common to the experience of unprotected girls in NewYork City. She groped about in her mind for the formula to be applied insuch cases, as recommended by Aunt Amelia. "Sir, you are no gentleman!If you were a gentleman, you would not offer an affront to a young,defenseless girl who—" The rest eluded her; she could not recall it,try as she would. In desperate resolve to do her duty anyway, she tiltedback her umbrella, whereat a fine stream of water poured from the tipdirectly over her upturned face, and trickled cheerily down the bridgeof her short nose.
"Sir—" she shouted resolutely, and then she stopped, for, plainly, heroration was, in the premises, a misfit—the person beside her—the oneof the mortal effrontery and immortal grip, being a—woman. A woman ofmasculine proportions, towering, deep-chested, large-limbed, but with aface which belied all these, for in it her sex shone forth in amotherliness unmistakable, as if the world at large were her family, andit was her business to see that it was generously provided for, alongthe pleasantest possible lines for all concerned.
"What car?" the woman trumpeted, gazing down serenely into Claire'slittle wet, anxious, upturned face at her elbow.
"Columbus Avenue."
The stranger nodded, peering down the glistening, wet way, as if shewere a skipper sighting a ship.
"My car, too! First's Lexin'ton—next Broadway—then—here's ours!"Again that derrick-grip, and they stood in the heart of the maelstrom,but apparently perfectly safe, unassailable.
"They won't stop," Claire wailed plaintively. "I've been waiting forages. The car'll go by! You see if it won't!"
It did, indeed, seem on the point of sliding past, as all the rest haddone, but of a sudden the motorman vehemently shut off his power, andput on his brake. By some hidden, mysterious force tha