Nellie Bly's World:1893: Nellie Bly's World, #3

By Nellie Bly and David Blixt

NELLIE BLY RETURNS!

"Nellie Bly is the most widely known and the most energetic newspaper woman in the world. Everybody knows what she has done. Everybody will be glad to hear that she has resumed her regular newspaper work on The World."—The New York World, September 13, 1893

 

Embark on a thrilling journey through the remarkable career of pioneering journalist Nellie Bly. While she is celebrated for her daring exploits, including her groundbreaking exposé of Blackwell's Island asylum and her whirlwind race around the globe, Bly's true legacy extends far beyond these iconic moments.

Between 1885 and 1922, Nellie Bly crafted a tapestry of hundreds of captivating stories. As a star reporter for Joseph Pulitzer's New York World, she fearlessly delved into the lives of presidential candidates, hardened criminals, sports legends, and inspiring figures such as Helen Keller and Susan B. Anthony. From undercover investigations to immersive experiences in various professions, Bly's reporting knew no bounds.

 

Now, in "Nellie Bly's World," edited by acclaimed author David Blixt ("What Girls Are Good For"), readers can finally delve into the full breadth of Bly's journalistic prowess. This comprehensive collection brings together her most gripping articles, showcasing her unparalleled courage, curiosity, and determination. Don't miss the chance to explore the extraordinary adventures of a true trailblazer in the world of journalism!

 

Volume 3 begins with her extensive interview with self-proclaimed anarchists, and continues through her undercover infiltrating of Democratic politics at Tammany Hall, visiting the famous Chicago's World Fair, exploring the rise among women who gamble, exposing a fraudulent "mind-reader," and revealing the horrifying practices of a society determined to exterminate New York's stray cat population. Among the articles included in this collection are:

Nellie Bly As A Salvation Army Girl
Nellie Bly And The Tiger
Nellie Bly On "The Midway"
A Woman Without A Heart
For Women Who Bet On Races
Living With A Broken Back
Dr. Parkhurst To Nellie Bly
Nellie Bly And The Mind-Reader
Nellie Bly And The Band Of Mercy

Explore the full power of Bly's Blackwing pencil at the height of her fame and influence! From scandalous exposes to heartwarming interviews, "Nellie Bly's World" is your passport to a bygone era of journalistic excellence and daring exploits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sordelet Ink
• Release date: May 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9781957328386

Nellie Bly

Nellie Bly (1864-1922) was an American investigative journalist. Born Elizabeth Jane Cochran in a suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, she was raised in a family of Irish immigrants. In 1879, she attended Indiana Normal School for a year before returning to Pittsburgh, where she began writing anonymously for the Pittsburgh Dispatch. Impressed by her work, the newspaper’s editor offered her a full-time job. Writing under the pseudonym of Nellie Bly, she produced a series of groundbreaking investigative pieces on women factory workers before traveling to Mexico as a foreign correspondent, which led her to report on the arrest of a prominent Mexican journalist and dissident. Returning to America under threat of arrest, she soon left the Pittsburgh Dispatch to undertake a dangerous investigative assignment for Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World on the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. After feigning a bout of psychosis in order to get admitted, she spent ten days at the asylum witnessing widespread abuse and neglect. Her two-part series in the New York World later became the book Ten Days in a Mad-House (1887), earning Bly her reputation as a pioneering reporter and leading to widespread reform. The following year, Bly took an assignment aimed at recreating the journey described in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). Boarding a steamer in Hoboken, she began a seventy-two day trip around the globe, setting off a popular trend that would be emulated by countless adventurers over the next several decades. After publishing her book on the journey, Around the World in Seventy-Two Days (1890), Bly married manufacturer Robert Seaman, whose death in 1904 left Bly in charge of the Iron Clad Manufacturing Co. Despite Bly’s best efforts as a manager and inventor, her tenure ultimately resulted in the company’s bankruptcy. In the final years of her life, she continued working as a reporter covering World War I and the women’s suffrage movement, cementing her legacy as a groundbreaking and ambitious figure in American journalism.

Book preview

Nellie Bly Returns

Wednesday, September 13, 1893

Nellie Bly is the most widely known and the most energetic newspaper woman in the world. Everybody knows what she has done. Everybody will be glad to hear that she has resumed her regular newspaper work on The World.

After her extraordinary trip around the world Nellie Bly devoted herself to resting and writing fiction, which delighted countless thousands.

But fiction is unsatisfactory to one born to handle and master facts. Nellie Bly has tired of fiction. She has realized the solemn truth that the newspaper profession is the only field for an active mind. She has devoted three years past to the elaboration of brilliant newspaper ideas. She began yesterday the work of putting them into concrete shape. It is pleasing to announce that she is once more laboring in her natural vineyard. The character of her first article, to appear in next Sunday’s World, will soon be publicly announced.

From this time on, with renewed ardor, Nellie Bly will pursue the task for which nature intended her. She will discover truths hitherto unknown, she will interest the people and terrify the tyrant. Jules Verne will be made to feel over and over again the truth of the Persian proverb: An American girl can do more things than any Frenchman can think about.

In the contemplation of Nellie Bly’s work woman will be made to feel prouder of woman’s ability, man will realize his smallness. Nellie Bly’s numerous and insignificant rivals may proceed to tremble. The sun, whose light they cannot bear, has risen once more. Nellie Bly is coming back to work.

In most cases the personality of the individual who writes for a newspaper is not important. All that the public cares to know about him it finds in the columns he produces, but it is different with Nellie Bly. She is as much a personality as Grover Cleveland or the Queen of Sheba. The people want to know about her, and since natural modesty keeps her from telling about herself, it is proper for somebody else to undertake that task in a feeble way.

Nellie Bly is an American. Her real name is Elizabeth Cochrane. She is more of an American than most Americans, because her ancestors in the gloomy past came over and helped cut down the first trees in Pennsylvania.

Nellie Bly’s achievements lead one to believe that she must be at least twenty-four years old. Her appearance, however, is that of a much younger woman.

She is rather tall and slender, with a very interesting and intelligent face. Her eyes are brown, her hair almost black. Her hands seem almost too small to hold a pen. She writes, however, very rapidly.

The newspaper work which this young woman has done has had the advantage of publicity in The World, which means that everybody knows all about it. She lived as a supposedly insane patient in the asylum on Blackwell’s Island for ten days. The result of The World’s articles concerning her experience there was a large appropriation that has meant comfort to many helpless insane creatures.

Her description of the treatment of female prisoners in police stations was another achievement in the interest of the unfortunate. The appointment of police matrons to care for the female prisoners was the result of that piece of excellent work.

Nellie Bly has done a great deal to earn the approval and the gratitude of the inhabitants of this city, but that all the inhabitants know. What they know nothing about, and what will greatly interest them, is Nellie Bly’s literary career during the past three years.

During that time a great many moving and exciting stories by Nellie Bly have appeared in Norman L. Munro’s story paper. All of these stories have been written with the purpose of combining amusement with morality. In every one the reader has been made to feel that the young girl who starts out in life with poverty and virtue as her sole possessions is bound to marry the rich manufacturer’s son if she keeps in the straight and narrow path. All of these stories were constructed on the same general lines. In each case the young girl around whom the story centres is taken at the zenith of her beauty, just as she reaches her sixteenth year. She is beautiful and poor, as we all like to have her. Her adventures invariably run through thirteen instalments. Through the first twelve and a half instalments she undergoes every possible misfortune—the bullying of the foreman, the treachery of friends, relentless pursuit by villains, apparent neglect by the hero, with the incidental pangs of hunger, thirst, lack of clothing, living with hags in cellars, &c. In the last half of the thirteenth instalment everything ends up beautifully. The heroine is seen at the age of seventeen, with her wonderful beauty ripened into mature womanhood, marrying the richest young man in sight, while those who have been good to her inherit large estates from distant relatives, and the villain dies by his own hand.

Nellie Bly has written many of these stories and has extracted a great deal of fun from their manufacture. The most difficult thing was to find good names. One of the stories was called Christmas Cherry. This told the adventures of a girl found by a policeman in Cherry street on Christmas day. The girl married well. Another was Twins and Rivals. This was a moving story of deep-rooted passion and jealousy, beginning in the cradle. A third, more serious in tone, was Alta Lynn, M.D. This story, almost Zolaesque in its defiance of tradition, was the story of a young girl who made her own fortune instead of marrying it.

After finding a name for a story there was considerable strain caused by the necessity of coining soul-stirring phrases for the heroine, blood-curdling ones for the villain, and touching protestations of undying affection for the hero. While writing these novels Nellie Bly kept upon her desk a certain number of sheets devoted to the various characters in the plot. When any phrase occurred to her that seemed suited to one of her people, she would write it down on the villain’s, heroine’s or hero’s page, as the case might be, and work it into the novel at the first opportunity. Such words as alas and alack a day, which were constantly needed, were kept in alphabetical order in separate slips.

Norman L. Munro, publisher of Nellie Bly’s works of fiction, is spoken of by her in tones of profound gratitude. When she used to write poetry in her earliest days Mr. Munro used to fix it up for her and print it. He has been a true and devoted friend ever since. From this time onward the goddess of fiction will have to console herself with the thought that her loss is the newspaper public’s gain. Nellie Bly leaves fiction for newspaper reality.

Nellie Bly Again

Sunday, September 17, 1893

She Interviews Emma Goldman and Other Anarchists.

WHAT JUSTUS H. SCHWAB AND JOHN MOST SAY OF CAPITAL.

Their Ideas of Marriage Do Away with All Ceremony.

SCHWAB’S WEDDING SERVICE READS, HERE’S TO YOU.

Perfect Freedom In Everything Is Their Motto—Emma Goldman’s Opinion of the Woman Who Is Married to a Man She Does Not Love—What She Says About the Wealthy and the Lazy—Why There Are Criminals—If Everything Were Free, She Says, There Would Be No Criminals – Emma Goldman Speaks Russian, German, French and English, and Reads and Writes Spanish and Italian—Schwab Talks About His Wife and Smart Children.

Will the United States ever again suffer from civil war?

All the causes upon which that premonition has been founded seem to have vanished.

The religious war so frequently suggested is an impossibility to-day, when all denominations meet in peaceful and harmonious conference.

Race prejudices, on which was hinged another thought of war, are rapidly disappearing, and those remaining are not strong enough to-day to make a man get or give a black eye.

As for a war between the East and West, we are far too level-headed for that. The West is our brother and we may have our little spats, but the one that strikes him a blow must fight us.

What remains?

The greatest of all causes, the cause most to be feared.

You hear its undercurrent as it breaks forth in thundering tones from time to time.

Does it mean anything serious?

Ask the capitalist! Ask the thinker! Ask the labor unions!

There is something brewing between capital and labor, between the masses and the classes, between the rich man and the poor.

Who can tell what it is, what it will be, when it will come?

If it is war, who will lead the masses? Those who are to-day recognized as sympathizers, promoters and agitators.

And first among these are John Most, Justus H. Schwab and Emma Goldman.

They are devoting their lives to the solution of the social problem. They are earnest, sincere and tireless. They are ready to give liberty and life, if necessary, for this cause. John Most has already spent nine years of his life in prison for preaching his theories, and he preaches as earnestly to-day as he did before his first term.

This means more than a mere fad, more than a desire for notoriety, and I can positively assert that there is no money in it.

There is no doubt, then, as to their honesty and sincerity, be they right or wrong; and as anarchical leaders and authorities, as the representatives of the people, if labor goes to war with capital, it is not amiss to give a little sketch of them, their personality and their daily lives. This I have attempted to do.

The number of Anarchists in America it is impossible to give. The body is growing larger and stronger every day. Fathers are educating sons to follow in their footsteps and mothers are implanting the seeds of Anarchy in the minds of their daughters.

What effect this teaching has upon the home life and children you can judge from the little I saw at Mr. Schwab’s.

It has been said that the Anarchistic party is composed of Germans and beer. The following extract from a letter I received refutes this:

I see you are to write about Anarchists. Will you not say that America is founded upon Anarchy? What were we but Anarchists when we threw the tea overboard? I wish to state, as it is claimed all Anarchists are foreigners, that in New York City there is an Anarchist club, composed of 160 members, every one of whom is a descendant of a revolutionary ancestor. No man can be a member who is not. And we are Anarchists!

Through an acquaintance who saw Parsons just before he was hanged I have obtained his (Parsons’s) definition of Anarchy.

It is as follows:

Anarchy is a speculative philosophy. It is antagonistic to centralized power. It proposes the abolition of all authority, compulsion or force government.

Webster’s definition of anarchy is this:

Anarchy: Want of government; the state of society where there is no law or supreme power, or where the laws are not efficient, and individuals do what they please with impunity; political confusion.

I stood at the heavy iron gate that keeps out those who wish to go into the Tombs and keeps in those who wish to go out.

Just within a man, fat, uniformed and expressionless sat upon a chair which, by tilting against the wall, he had transformed from a quadruped into a biped.

The man looked at me without the faintest expression of any kind. Two poorly clad mouse-colored men upon the curb looked wonderingly at me and then on beyond into the long, dark passage. A schoolboy, with his books under his arm, ran up the steps, and after one hasty glance through the iron bars and another at me, ran on. A shapeless girl in plain black garments came timidly up to my side and looked longingly through the door, as if inside was some one for whom she cared.

I want to come in, I said to the man.

It’s too late, he replied, in a voice that matched his lack of expression.

But I have a note from Mr. Blake for the Warden, I urged.

He’s out, but his deputy’s here, if he’ll do, he informed me.

He will do as well, I answered.

The chair became a quadruped again. The gate swung slowly open and then clanged behind me.

Wants to see the Warden, the man called to a Grover Cleveland–looking official who sat behind an inner gate.

This official asked for my pass, looked it over lazily, handed it back and told me to sit down; that the deputy was at dinner.

I sat down and watched a man at work on a ledger; saw the girl I had left on the steps outside talking earnestly to the man at the gate, heard it clang twice—once to admit a man prisoner and the next time to admit a girl.

When I was almost tired out with waiting the deputy warden came and instantly took me back to the women’s prison.

This young lady wishes to see Emma Goldman, he explained to the assistant matron.

Do you want her brought here or will you talk to her through the gate? she asked me.

If I can go in to her, I prefer it; if not, please bring her to me.

It is against the rules to let anyone in among the prisoners, she said, and giving me a chair she went to bring Emma Goldman.

EMMA GOLDMAN

Do you need an introduction to Emma Goldman? You have seen supposed pictures of her. You have read of her as a property-destroying, capitalist-killing, riot-promoting agitator. You see her in your mind a great raw-boned creature, with short hair and bloomers, a red flag in one hand, a burning torch in the other; both feet constantly off of the ground and murder! continually upon her lips.

That was my ideal of her, I confess, and when the matron stood before me saying, This is Emma Goldman, I gasped with surprise and then laughed.

A little bit of a girl, just 5 feet high, including her bootheels, not showing her 120 pounds; with a saucy, turned-up nose and very expressive blue-gray eyes that gazed inquiringly at me through shell-rimmed glasses was Emma Goldman!

Her quiet little hands held rolled a recent copy of the Illustrated American. The modest blue serge Eton suit, with a blue muslin shirtwaist and scarf, had no suggestion of bloomers, and the light brown hair, not banged but falling loosely over the forehead and gathered in a little knot behind, was very pretty and girlish.

The little feet were decorously upon the floor and when the rather full lips parted, showing strong, white teeth within, a mild, pleasant voice, with a very fetching accent, said not murder, but—

What is it you wish, madam?

I told her. I sat down beside her, and we talked for two hours.

I do not want anything published about me, she said, because people misjudge and exaggerate, and, besides, I do not think it looks well for me to say anything while I am in jail.

But I want to know something about your former life: how you became an Anarchist, what your theories are, and how you mean to establish them.

SHE TELLS HER AGE.

She smiled at me, rather amused, but the smile was a very becoming one, lighting up the gravity of her face and making her look more girlish than ever.

How old are you? I asked as a beginning.

Twenty-five last June, she replied without the faintest hesitancy.

What greater proof do I need that she is an unusual and extraordinary woman?

But the month of roses has not brought many into my life, she added, with a little smile.

When did you become an Anarchist, and what made you one?

Oh. I have been one all my life, but I never really entered into the work until after the Chicago riot, seven years ago.

Why are you one? I asked. What is your object? What did you hope to gain?

She smiled again, and slowly smoothed her book upon her knee.

We are all egotists, she answered. "There are some that, if asked why they are Anarchists, will say, ‘for the good of the people.’ It is not true, and I do not say it. I am an Anarchist because I am an egotist. It pains me to see others suffer. I cannot bear it. I never hurt a man in my life, and I don’t think I could. So, because what others suffer makes me suffer, I am an Anarchist and give my life to the cause, for only through it can be ended all suffering and want and unhappiness.

A WORD ABOUT CAPITALISTS.

Everything wrong, crime and sickness and all that, is the result of the system under which we live, she continued earnestly. Were there no money and, as a result, no capitalists, people would not be over-worked, starved and illy housed, all of which makes them old before their time, diseases them and makes them criminals. To save a dollar the capitalists build their railroads poorly, and along comes a train, and loads of people are killed. What are their lives to him if by their sacrifice he has saved money? But those deaths mean misery, want and crime in many, many families. According to Anarchistic principles, we build the best of railroads, so there shall be no accidents. There is the Broadway cable, for instance. Instead of running a few cars at a frightful speed, in order to save a larger expense, we should run many cars at slow speed, and so have no accidents.

If you do away with money and employers, who will work upon your railroads? I asked.

Those that care for that kind of work. Then everyone shall do that which he likes best, not merely a thing he is compelled to do to earn his daily bread.

What would you do with the lazy ones, who would not work?

No one is lazy. They grow hopeless from the misery of their present existence, and give up. Under our order of things, every man would do the work he liked, and would have as much as his neighbor, so could not be unhappy and discouraged.

What will you do with your criminals if everyone is free and prisons unheard of?

WHY ARE THERE CRIMINALS?

She smiled, sadly.

The subject takes a lifetime of study, she answered, but we believe that we would not have a criminal. Why are there criminals to-day? Because some have everything, others nothing. Under our system it would be every man equal. The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Now, to steal, it is granted, there must be something to steal. We do not grant there is anything to steal, for everything should be free.

Do you believe in God, Miss Goldman?

Once I did. Until I was seventeen I was very devout, and all my people are so, even to-day. But when I began to read and study, I lost that belief. I believe in nature, nothing else.

Where were you born?

I was born in Russia and afterwards my family removed to Germany. Although my people were of a good family, I was always in deep sympathy with the poor. I did not think of being an Anarchist then, but I was always trying to see some way to benefit the working classes. I was taught a trade. My father thought that no difference what one’s position was, one should master a trade, so I learned dressmaking at a French school. I have worked at this for years, sometimes at my own rooms, and again in establishments.

SHE LIKES TO BATHE AND DRESS.

Do you care for dress at all?

Oh, of course, she answered, laughing. I like to look well, but I don’t like very fussy dresses. I like my dresses to be plain and quiet, and, above all things, here she laughed as if recalling the oft-repeated declaration of Anarchists’ hatred for soap, I love my bath. I must be clean. Being a German, I was taught cleanliness with my youth, and I do not care how poor my room or my clothes are so long as they are clean.

What did you do with the money you earned by sewing?

Spent it all for books, she said emphatically. I kept myself in poverty buying books. I have a library of nearly three hundred volumes, and so long as I had something to read I did not mind hunger or shabby clothes.

Think of that, you girls who put every dollar upon your backs! Can you not testify to this woman’s earnestness of purpose when she voluntarily sacrifices her looks for books?

Miss Goldman speaks Russian, German, French and English, and reads and writes Spanish and Italian.

HER IDEAS OF MARRIAGE.

There is something else I must ask you. We look upon marriage as the foundation of everything that is good. We base everything upon it. You do not believe in marriage. What do you propose shall take its place?

I was married, she said, with a little sigh, "when I was scarcely seventeen. I suffered—let me say no more about that. I believe in the marriage of affection. That is the only true marriage. If two people care for each other they have a right to live together so long as that love exists. When it is dead what base immorality for them still to keep together! Oh, I tell you the marriage ceremony is a terrible thing!

Tell me, she added very seriously, "how can a woman go before a minister and take an oath to love ‘this man’ all her life? How can she tell but to-morrow, next week, she may get to know this man and hate him. Love is founded on respect, and a woman cannot tell what a man is until she lives with him. Instead of being free to end the relation when her feelings change, she lives on in a state that is the most depraved of all.     

Take the woman who marries for a home and for fine clothes. She goes to the man with a lie on her lips and in her heart. Still—with a little uplifting of the hands—she will not let her skirts touch the poor unfortunate upon the street who deceives no man, but is to him just what she appears! Do away with marriage. Let there be nothing but voluntary affection and there ceases to exist the prostitute wife and the prostitute street woman.

But the children? What would you do with them? Men would desert; women and children would be left uncared for and destitute, I protested.

"On the contrary, then men would never desert, and if a couple decided to separate there would be public homes and schools for the children. Mothers who would rather do something else than care for their children could put them in the schools, where they would be cared for by women who preferred taking care of children to any other work. In this way we would never have diseased or disabled children from careless and incompetent mothers.

Besides this, she went on, in our free schools every child would have a chance to learn and pursue that for which it has ability. Can you imagine the number of children to-day, children of poor parents, who are born with ability for music or painting, or letters, whose abilities lie dormant for the lack of means and the necessity to work for their daily bread as soon as they are out of their cradles.

HER RELATIVES.

Have you any brothers or sisters, Miss Goldman?

Yes; a married brother, who does not bother about anything, and only reads the papers when there is something in them about me. My sister is also married, and, while not actively engaged in our cause, is bringing up her children to our principles. My father and mother are also living, near Rochester, and, while not Anarchists, sympathize with me and do not interfere with my work.

What to your future?

I cannot say. I shall live to agitate to promote our ideas. I am willing to give my liberty and my life, if necessary, to further my cause. It is my mission and I shall not falter.

Do you think that murder is going to help your cause?

She looked grave; she shook her head slowly.

That is a long subject to discuss. I don’t believe that through murder we shall gain, but by war, labor against capital, masses against classes, which will not come in twenty or twenty-five years. But some day, I firmly believe, we shall gain, and until then I am satisfied to agitate, to teach, and I only ask justice and freedom of speech.

And so I left the little Anarchist, the modern Joan of Arc, waiting patiently in the Tombs until her friends could secure bail for her.

I shall certainly get a year or a year and a half, she said to me in parting, not because my offense deserves it, but because I am an Anarchist.

JOHN MOST.

When I walked through William street in search of 266, where lives John Most, I was not the happiest girl in the world.

As I walked along by idle groups on the corners and dirty

doorsteps I recalled the impression I had formed of Most from newspaper accounts, and I wondered at myself for risking my life in order to see such a person.

His own description of the accepted idea of an Anarchist, copied from his pamphlet, The Social Monster, was about my own idea:

A dagger in one hand, a torch in the other, and all his pockets brimful with dynamite bombs—that is the picture of the Anarchist, such as it has been drawn by his enemies. They look at him simply as a mixture of a fool and a knave, whose sole purpose is a universal topsy-turvy, and whose only means to that purpose is to slay any one and every one who differs from him.

I wished myself out of the whole thing a dozen times before I reached 266 and double that afterwards.

The house is one of a row of red brick, high-stooped houses. In the basement of 266 was a cobbler, and I had a weak intention of inquiring therein for Most, but thought better of it.

So I mounted the high stoop and rang the bell, above which a small bit of paper bore the information that a furnished room was to let within.

In answer to my ring a head appeared at the window, and as I drew back in the shadow of the door the possessor of that head was forced to appear entire at the door.

Entire? Not quite. The door was opened just far enough to give me a half view of a woman with very sharp black eyes and straight black hair and a determined clear-cut face.

Does Mr. Most live here? I asked in my pleasantest manner.

Yes, she replied shortly, her black eyes looking me over. What do you want with him?

I smiled in as conciliating a way as I could.

I wish to see him personally, I answered.

What about? she demanded, shortly.

That I can only tell to him, I assured her pleasantly, but firmly.

Do you know him?

I have not that pleasure.

You are a reporter? suspiciously.

I assure you, no! (I am called a special writer, correspondent, journalist, but in the strict sense of the word am not a reporter.)

He won’t see reporters and he won’t see strangers, she assured me positively, "so it will be no use to try.’

Is he in now? I asked.

No, crossly.

Can you tell me where he is?

No!

"I am so sorry. I am so anxious to see him. He has an office; do you suppose he is there?’

I don’t know.

Is he usually there at this hour?

I don’t know.

Where is his office?

I don’t know.

"Has he occupied the one office long?’

Ever since he came to America.

And you don’t know where it is? I laughed.

She was caught. She looked angrier than ever.

I know it’s in the next block; that’s all know.

Do you know where there is a directory so I may learn his number?

No, she answered, and I am busy. I’ve got to go in.

She stepped back as If to close the little opening, so I was forced to make a final plunge.

HE DOESN’T LIKE GOLDMAN NOW.

"I have been