“I guess that puts it up to Mr. Otter again,” said Elsie, ruefully, turning down the street. “And I’m sorry, too, for I’d much rather make my way without help.”
Near Fourteenth street Elsie saw a placard tacked on the side of a doorway that read: “Fifty girls, neat sewers, wanted immediately on theatrical costumes. Good pay.”
She was about to enter, when a solemn man, dressed all in black, laid his hand on her arm.
“My dear girl,” he said, “I entreat you not to enter that dressing-room of the devil.”
“Goodness me!” exclaimed Elsie, with some impatience. ‘‘The devil seems to have a cinch on all the business in New York. What’s wrong about the place?”
“It is here,” said the solemn man, “that the regalia of Satan—in other words, the costumes worn on the stage—are manufactured. The stage is the road to ruin and destruction. Would you imperil your soul by lending the work of your hands to its support? Do you know, my dear girl, what the theatre leads to? Do you know where actors and actresses go after the curtain of the playhouse has fallen upon them for the last time?”
“Sure,” said Elsie. “Into vaudeville. But do you think it would be wicked for me to make a little
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