"Mrs. Chase. Mr. Brownley, when I went away from Randolph & Randolph's
office I married John Chase; you may remember him as delivery clerk. I had
such a happy home and my husband was so good; I did not have to typewrite
any longer. These are our two children."
"What are you doing here?"
The tears sprang to her eyes; she dropped them, but did not answer.
"Don't mind me, woman. I, too, have hidden hells I don't want the world to
see. Don't mind me; tell me your story. It may do you good; it may do me
good; yes, it may do me good."
I had dropped into a seat a few feet away. Both were too much occupied
with their own thoughts to notice me or any one else. I could not overhear
their conversation, but long afterward, when I mentioned our old
stenographer, Bessie Brown, to Bob, he told me of the incident at the
Battery. Her husband, after their marriage, had become infected with the
stock-gambling microbe, the microbe that gnaws into its victim's mind and
heart day and night, while ever fiercer grows the "get rich, get rich"
fever. He had plunged with their savings and had drawn a blank. He had
lost his position in disgrace and had landed in the bucket-shop, the
sub-cellar pit of the big Stock Exchange hell.
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