balancing a
pail of mortar on your head. After a while that walk becomes a habit.

"Watch her with that pail," said Wallie.

Mizzi filled the pail almost to the top with the heavy white mixture.
She filled it quickly, expertly. The pail, filled, weighed between
seventeen and twenty kilos. One kilo is equal to about two and one fifth
pounds. The girl threw down her scoop, stooped, grasped the pail by its
two handles, and with one superb, unbroken motion raised the pail high
in her two strong arms and placed it on her head. Then she breathed
deeply, once, set her whole figure, turned stiffly, and was off with it.
Sid Hahn took on a long breath as though he himself had just
accomplished the gymnastic feat.

"Well, so far it's pretty good. But I don't know that the American stage
is clamouring for any hod carriers and mortar mixers, exactly."

A whistle blew. Twelve o'clock. Bricks, mortar, scoops, shovels were
abandoned. The women, in their great clod-hopping shoes, flew
chattering to the tiny hut where their lunch boxes were stored. The men
followed more slowly, a mere handful of them. Not one of them wore
overalls or apron. Out again with their bundles and boxes of food--very
small bundles. Very tiny boxes. They ate ravenously the bread and
sausage and drank their beer in great gulps. Fifteen minutes after the
whistle had blown the last crumb had vanished.

"Now, then," said Wallie, and guided Hahn nearer. He looked toward
Mizzi. Everyone looked toward her. Mizzi stood up, brushing crumbs from
her lap. She had a little four-cornered black shawl, folded cross-wise,
over her head and tied under her chin. Her face was round and her cheeks
red. The shawl, framing this, made her look very young and cherubic.

She did not put her hands on her hips, or do any of those story-book
things. She grinned, broadly, showing strong white teeth made strong and
white through much munching of coarse black bread; not yet showing the
neglect common to her class. She asked a question in a loud, clear
voice.

"What's that?" asked Hahn.

"She's talking a kind of hunky Hungarian, I guess. The people here won't
speak German, did you know that? They hate it."

The crowd shouted back with one voice. They settled themselves
comfortably, sitting or standing. Their faces held the broad smile of
anticipation.

"She asked them what they want her to sing. They told her. It's the same
every day."

Mizzi Markis stood there before them in the