For she could not hire a waiter to take her place; every man who came into the eating-room expected to be served by the slim hands of Sally herself, and he expected also some trifling repartee which would make him pay his bill with a grin.
The repartee dragged with Sally to-day, almost to sullenness, and when she began to grow weary in the early afternoon, there was no reserve strength on which she could fall back.

She suddenly became aware that she wanted support, aid, comfort.

Finally she spilled a great armful of "empties" down on the long drain-board of the sink, turned to the wall, and buried her face in her hands.

The cook, Bert, though he cast a startled glance at her would not have dared to speak, after that encounter of the morning, but a rather explosive sniff was too eloquent an appeal to his manliness.
His left sleeve having fallen, he rolled it back, tied the strings of the apron tighter about his plump middle, and advanced to the battle.
His hand touched the shoulder of the girl.
"Sally!" "Shut your face!" moaned a stifled voice.
But he took his courage between his teeth and persisted.
"Sally, somethin' is wrong." "Nothin' you can right, Fatty," said the same woe-stricken voice.
"Sally, if somebody's been gettin' fresh with you--" Her arms jerked down; she whirled and faced him with clenched fists; her eyes shining more brightly for the mist which was in them.
"Fresh with me?
Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, d'you think there's anybody in Eldara man enough to get fresh with me ?" Bert retreated a step; caution was a moving element in his nature.

From a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured: "Then what is wrong ?" Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.
She said sadly: "I dunno, Bert.