"You're all right, little Peaches and Cream."
"You--you're all right, too, Joe."
"You mean that, sweetness?"
"I mean it if you mean it."
"Do I mean it! Say, do I give a little queen like you my company eight nights out of seven for the fun of kiddin' myself along?"
"I know you ain't, Joe; that's what I keep tellin' ma."
"Sittin' there screwing your lips at me like that! You got a mouth just like--just like red fruit, like a cherry that would bust all over the place if a bird took a peck at it."
Her bosom, little as Juliet's, rose to his words, and she giggled after the immemorial fashion of women.
"Oh, Joe! If only--if only--if only--"
"If only what, sweetness?"
"If only--"
"Huh?"
"Aw, I can't say it."
"Whistle it, then, sweetness."
"It don't do us no good to talk about things, Joe. We--we never get anywhere."
"What's the use o' talking, then, sweetness? Here's your lemonade. I wish I was in the baby-food class--'pon my soul I do! Look, sweetness; this is the stuff, though. Look at its color, will you? Red as a moonshiner's eye! Here, waiter, leave that siphon; I might wanna shoot up the place."
"You promised, Joe, not--"
"Sure; I ain't goin' to, neither. Did I keep my pool promise? Ain't heard a ball click for weeks! Will I keep this one? Watch! Two's my limit, Peaches. I'd swear off sleepin' if you wanted me to."
"Would you, Joe? That's what I want you to tell ma when--"
"Aw, there you go again! Honest, the minute a fellow feels hisself warming up inside you begin tryin' to reach up to the church-tower and ring the bells."
"Joe!"
"Sure you do."
"You make me ashamed when you talk like that."
"Then cut it, sweetness. Come on; let's finish out this dance."
"It worries her so, Joe. She asks and asks till I--I don't know what to say no more when I see her wastin' away and all. I--Gawd, I don't know!"
"For Gawd's sakes, don't leak any tears here, Ess! This gang here knows me. Ain't I told you I like you, girl? I like you well enough to do anything your little heart de-sires; but this ain't the place to talk about it."
"That's what you always say, Joe; no place is the place."
"Gee, ain't it swell enough just the way we are--just like it is, us knocking round together? I ain't your settling-down kind, sister. You're one little winner, and I like your style o' sweetness, but I ain't what you'd call a homesteader."
"Joe!"
"Sure; I mean it. I like you well enough to do any little thing your heart desires; but I never look far ahead, hon. I'm near-sighted."
"What--what about me?"
"I ain't got nothing saved up--not a dime. You tell your dame--you tell her we--we just understand each other. Huh? How's that? That's fair enough, ain't it?"
"Whatta you mean, Joe? You always say that; but please, Joe, please tell me what you mean?"
"Listen, kiddo. Say, listen to that trot they're playin', will you? Come on, sis; be a sport! To-morrow night we'll talk about anything your little heart desires. Come on, one round! Don't make me sore."
"Aw, no, Joe; I gotta go."
"One round, sweetness--see, I'll pay the check. See, two rounds round, and we'll light out for home. Look, they're all watchin' for us--two rounds, sweetness."
"One, you just said, Joe."
"One, then, little mouse."
They rose to the introductory titillation of violins; she slid into his embrace with a little fluid movement, and they slithered out on the shining floor. A light murmur like the rustle of birds' wings went after them, and couples leaned from their tables to watch the perfect syncopation of their steps. His slightly crepuscular eyes took on the sheen of mica; the color ran high in her face, and her lips parted.
"They sit up and take notice when we slide out, don't they, little one?"
"Yes."
"Some class to my trotting, ain't there, sweetness?"
"Yeh. Look, Joe; we gotta go after this round--it's nearly twelve."
"Twice round, sweetness, and then we go. If we ain't got the profesh beat on that Argentine Dip I'll give ten orchestra seats to charity and let any box-office in this town land me for what I'm worth."
"Joe!"
"Aw, I was only kiddin'. They got as much chance with me as a man with Saint Vitus's dance has of landing a trout. Gee, you're pretty to-night, sweetness!"
"Sweetness yourself!"
"Peaches and Cream!"
"Come on, Joe; this is twice round."
"Once more, sweetness--just once more! See, you got me hypnotized; my feet won't stop. See, they keep going and going. See, I can't stop. Whoa! Whoa! Honest, I can't quit! Whoa! We gotta go round once more, sweetness. I--just--can't--stop!"
"Just once more, Joe."
* * * * *
At one o'clock the gas-flame in the hallway outside the rear third-floor apartment flared sootily and waned to a weary bead as the pressure receded. Through the opacity of the sudden fog the formal-faced door faded into the gloom, and Miss Essie Birdsong pushed the knob stealthily inch by inch to save the squeak.
"Plunk-plunk-plunka-plunka-plunk-plunk! Essie?"
"'Sh-h-h-h! Yes, Jimmie--it's only me. Why you makin' that noise? Why's the light burning? What's--"
"Essie! Essie, is that you and--"
"Ma dearie, you--What's the matter? You ain't sick, are you? What's--what's wrong, Jimmie? Please, what's wrong?"
She stood with her back to the door, her face struck with fear suddenly, as with white forked lightning, and her breath coming on every alternate heart-beat.
"Ma! Jimmie! For Gawd's sakes, what's the matter?"
The transitional falsetto of her brother's voice came to her gritty as slate scratching slate, and cold, prickly flesh sprang out over her.
"Don't come in here! You--you and your friend stay out there a minute till ma kinda gets her breath back; she--she's all right--ain't you, ma? You and your friend just wait just a minute, Ess."
"Me and---"
"Yeh; both of you wait. Nothing ain't wrong--is it, ma? There, just lay back on the pillow a minute, ma. Gwan; be a sport! Look, your cheek's all red from restin' on my shoulder so long. Lemme go a minute and bring Essie and her gen'l'man friend in to see you. Gee! After you been waitin' and waitin' you--you ain't goin' to give out the last minute. There ain't nothin' to be scared about, ma. Lemme go in just a minute. Here it is, ma; don't break it--seven years' bad luck for smashin' a hand-mirror. Here; you look swell, ma--swell!"
"Tell him it ain't like me to give out like this. Take them bottles and that ice away, Jimmie--throw my flowered wrapper over my shoulders. There! Now tell him, Jimmie, it ain't like me."
"Surest thing, ma. Watch me!"
He emerged from the bedroom suddenly, his face twisted and his whispering voice like cold iron under the stroke of an anvil, and Essie trembled as she stood.
"Jimmie!"
"You--you devil, you! Where is he?"
She edged away from him with limbs that seemed as though they took root at every step and she must tear each foot from the carpet.
"To-morrow night he's comin' sure, Jimmie; he couldn't to-night, he--couldn't."
Jimmie's lips drew back from his gums as though too dry to cover them.
"You--you street-runner, you!"
"Jimmie!"
"You--you--you--"
"For Gawd's sakes, she'll hear you, Jimmie!"
"You devil, you! You've killed her, I tell you! I've been holdin' her in there for two hours, with the sweat standing out on her like water--you--"
"Oh, Gawd! Jimmie, lemme run for old man Gibbs; lemme--"
"Oh no, you don't! Lizzie Marks down-stairs is gone for him--but that ain't goin' to help none; what she wants is _you_--you and your low-down sneaking friend; and she's goin' to have him, too."
"He's gone, Jimmie. What--"
"You can't come home here to-night without him--you can't! You better run after him, and run after him quick. You can't come home here to-night without him, I tell you! Whatta you going to do about it--huh? Whatta you going to do? Quick! What?"
She trembled so she grasped the back of a chair for support, and tears ricocheted down her cheeks.
"I can't, Jimmie! He's gone by now; he's gone by now--out of sight. I can't! Please, Jimmie! I'll tell her! I'll tell her! Don't--don't you dare come near me! I'll go, Jimmie--I'll go. 'Sh-h-h!"
"You gotta get him--you can't come here to-night without him. I ain't goin' to stand for her not seeing him to-night. I--I don't care how you get him, but you ain't going to kill her! You gotta get him, or I'll--"
"Jimmie--'sh-h-h!"
"Jimmie, tell him it ain't like me to give out like this. Tell--"
"Yes, ma."
"Yes, ma--we're comin'. Joe's waitin' down at the door. I'll run down and bring him up; he--he's so bashful. In a minute, ma darlin'."
She flung open the door and fled, racing down two flights of stairs, with her steps clattering after her in an avalanche, and out into a quiet street, which sprung echoes of her flying feet.
After midnight every pedestrian becomes a simulacrum, wrapped in a black domino of mystery and a starry ephod of romance. A homeward-bound pedestrian is a faun in evening dress. Fat-and-forty leans from her window to hurtle a can at a night-yelling cat and becomes a demoiselle leaning out from the golden bar of Heaven.
In the inspissated gloom of the street occasional silhouettes hurried in silent haste; and a block ahead of her, just emerging into a string of shop lights, she could distinguish the uneven-shouldered outline of Joe Ullman and the unmistakable silhouette of his slightly askew hat.