kly rates for
room and board. The clerk spoke to Mr. Boyle, the proprietor, who
examined the girl critically.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"New York," answered Josie. "I'm a newspaper woman, but the war cost me
my job, because the papers are all obliged to cut down their forces. So
I came here to get work."

"The war affects Dorfield, too, and we've only two papers," said the
man. "But your business isn't my business, in any event. I suppose you
can pay in advance?"

"For a week, anyhow," she returned; "perhaps two weeks: If the papers
can't use me, I'll try for some other work."

"Know anybody here?"

"I know Colonel Hathaway, but I'm not on good terms with his
granddaughter, Mary Louise. We had a fight over the war. Give me a
quiet room, not too high up. This place looks like a fire-trap."

As she spoke, she signed her name on the register and opened her purse.

Boyle looked over his keyboard.

"Give me 47, if you can," said Josie carelessly. She had swiftly run
her eye over the hotel register. "Forty-seven is always my lucky
number."

"It's taken," said the clerk.

"Well, 43 is the next best," asserted Josie. "I made forty-three
dollars the last week I was in New York. Is 43 taken, also?"

"No," said Boyle, "but I can do better by you. Forty-three is a small
room and has only one window."

"Just the thing!" declared Josie. "I hate big rooms."

He assigned her to room 43 and after she had paid a week in advance a
bellboy showed her to the tiny apartment and carried her suitcase.

"Number 45'll be vacant in a day or two," remarked the boy, as he
unlocked her door. "Kauffman has it now, but he won't stay long. He's a
suspender drummer and comes about every month--sometimes oftener--and
always has 45. When he goes, I'll let you know, so you can speak for
it. Forty-five is one of our best rooms."

"Thank you," said Josie, and tipped him a quarter.

As she opened her suitcase and settled herself in the room, she
reflected on the meeting in Kasker's store which had led her to make
this queer move.

"A fool for luck, they say," she muttered. "I wonder what intuition
induced me to interview Jake Kasker. The clothing merchant isn't a bad
fellow," she continued to herself, looking over the notes she had made
on her tablets. "He didn't make a single disloyal speech. Hates the
war, and I can't blame him for that, but wants to fight it to a finish.
Now, the other man--Kauffman--hates the war, too, but