[1] Copyright, 1925, by Wheeler Syndicate, Inc.
The last prisoner was a man--his masculinity was not much in
evidence, it is true; he would perhaps better be described as a
"person," but he undoubtedly came under that general heading and was
so classified in the court record. He was a small, somewhat
shriveled, somewhat wrinkled American who had been living along for
probably thirty-five years.
His body looked as if it had been left by accident in his suit the
last time it went to the tailor's and pressed out with hot, heavy
irons to its present sharpness. His face was merely a face. It was
the kind of face that makes up crowds, gray in color with ears that
shrank back against the head as if fearing the clamor of the city,
and with the tired, tired eyes of one whose forebears have been
underdogs for five thousand years.
Brought into the dock between two towering Celts in executive blue he
seemed like the representative of a long extinct race, a very fagged
out and shriveled elf who had been caught poaching on a buttercup in
Central Park.
"What's your name?"
"Stuart."
"Stuart what?"
"Charles David Stuart."
The clerk recorded it without comment in the book of little crimes
and great mistakes.
"Age?"
"Thirty."
"Occupation?"
"Night cashier."
The clerk paused and looked at the judge. The judge yawned.
"Wha's charge?" he asked.
"The charge is"--the clerk looked down at the notation in his
hand--"the charge is that he pushed a lady in the face."
"Pleads guilty?"
"Yes."
The preliminaries were now disposed of. Charles David Stuart,
looking very harmless and uneasy, was on trial for assault and
battery.
The evidence disclosed, rather to the judge's surprise, that the lady
whose face had been pushed was not the defendant's wife.
On the contrary the victim was an absolute stranger--the prisoner had
never seen her before in his life. His reasons for the assault had
been two: first, that she talked during a theatrical performance;
and, second, that she kept joggling the back of his chair with her
knees. When this had gone on for some time he had turned around and
without any warning pushed her severely in the face.
"Call the plaintiff," said the judge, sitting up a little in his
chair. "Let's hear what she has to say."
The court room, sparsely crowded and unusually languid in the hot
afternoon, had become suddenly alert. Several men in the back of the
room moved into benches near the desk and a young reporter leaned
over the clerk's shoulder and copied the defendant's name on the back
of an envelope.
The plaintiff arose. She was a woman just this side of fifty with a
determined, rather overbearing face under yellowish white hair. Her
dress was a dignified black and she gave the impression of wearing
glasses; indeed the young reporter, who believed in observation, had
so described her in his mind before he realized that no such
adornment sat upon her thin, beaked nose.
It developed that she was Mrs. George D. Robinson of 1219 Riverside
Drive. She had always been fond of the theater and sometimes she
went to the matinée. There had been two ladies with her yesterday,
her cousin, who lived with her, and a Miss Ingles--both ladies were
in court.
This is what had occurred:
As the curtain went up for the first act a woman sitting behind had
asked her to remove her hat. Mrs. Robinson had been about to do so
anyhow, and so she was a little annoyed at the request and had
remarked as much to Miss Ingles and her cousin. At this point she
had first noticed the defendant who was sitting directly in front,
for he had turned around and looked at her quickly in a most insolent
way. Then she had forgotten his existence until just before the end
of the act when she made some remark to Miss Ingles--when suddenly he
had stood up, turned around and pushed her in the face.
"Was it a hard blow?" asked the judge at this point.
"A hard blow!" said Mrs. Robinson indignantly. "I should say it was.
I had hot and cold applications on my nose all night."
----"on her nose all night."
This echo came from the witness bench where two faded ladies were
leaning forward eagerly and nodding their heads in corroboration.
"Were the lights on?" asked the judge.
No, but everyone around had seen the incident and some people had
taken hold of the man right then and there.
This concluded the case for the plaintiff. Her two companions gave
similar evidence and in the minds of everyone in the court room the
incident defined itself as one of unprovoked and inexcusable
brutality.
The one element which did not fit in with this interpretation was the
physiognomy of the prisoner himself. Of any one of a number of minor
offenses he might have appeared guilty--pickpockets were notoriously
mild-mannered, for example--but of this particular assault in a
crowded theater he seemed physically incapable. He did not have the
kind of voice or the kind of clothes or the kind of mustache that
went with such an attack.
"Charles David Stuart," said the judge, "you've heard the evidence
against you?"
"Yes."
"And you plead guilty?"
"Yes."
"Have you anything to say before I sentence you?"
"No." The prisoner shook his head hopelessly. His small hands were
trembling.
"Not one word in extenuation of this unwarranted assault?"
The prisoner appeared to hesitate.
"Go on," said the judge. "Speak up--it's your last chance."
"Well," said Stuart with an effort, "she began talking about the
plumber's stomach."
There was a stir in the court room. The judge leaned forward.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, at first she was only talking about her own stomach to--to
those two ladies there"--he indicated the cousin and Miss
Ingles--"and that wasn't so bad. But when she began talking about
the plumber's stomach it got different."
"How do you mean--different?"
Charles Stuart looked around helplessly.
"I can't explain," he said, his mustache wavering a little, "but when
she began talking about the plumber's stomach you--you had to listen."
A snicker ran about the court room. Mrs. Robinson and her attendant
ladies on the bench were visibly horrified. The guard took a step
nearer as if at a nod from the judge he would whisk off this criminal
to the dingiest dungeon in Manhattan.
But much to his surprise the judge settled himself comfortably in his
chair.
"Tell us about it, Stuart," he said not unkindly. "Tell us the whole
story from the beginning."
This request was a shock to the prisoner and for a moment he looked
as though he would have preferred the order of condemnation. Then
after one nervous look around the room he put his hands on the edge
of the desk, like the paws of a fox terrier just being trained to sit
up, and began to speak in a quivering voice.
"Well, I'm a night cashier, your honor, in T. Cushmael's restaurant
on Third Avenue. I'm not married"--he smiled a little, as if he knew
they had all guessed _that_--"and so on Wednesday and Saturday
afternoons I usually go to the matinée. It helps to pass the time
till dinner. There's a drug store, maybe you know, where you can get
tickets for a dollar sixty-five to some of the shows and I usually go
there and pick out something. They got awful prices at the box
office now." He gave out a long silent whistle and looked feelingly
at the judge. "Four or five dollars for one seat----"
The judge nodded his head.
"Well," continued Charles Stuart, "when I pay even a dollar
sixty-five I expect to see my money's worth. About two weeks ago I
went to one of these here mystery plays where they have one fella
that did the crime and nobody knows who it was. Well, the fun at a
thing like that is to guess who did it. And there was a lady behind
me that'd been there before and she gave it all away to the fella
with her. Gee"--his face fell and he shook his head from side to
side--"I like to died right there. When I got home to my room I was
so mad that they had to come and ask me to stop walking up and down.
Dollar sixty-five of my money gone for nothing.
"Well, Wednesday came around again, and this show was one show I
wanted to see. I'd been wanting to see it for months, and every time
I went into the drug store I asked them if they had any tickets. But
they never did." He hesitated. "So Tuesday I took a chance and went
over to the box office and got a seat. Two seventy-five it cost me."
He nodded impressively. "Two seventy-five. Like throwing money
away. But I wanted to see that show."
Mrs. Robinson in the front row rose suddenly to her feet.
"I don't see what all this story has to do with it," she broke out a
little shrilly. "I'm sure I don't care----"
The judge brought his gavel sharply down on the desk.
"Sit down, please," he said. "This is a court of law, not a matinée."
Mrs. Robinson sat down, drawing herself up into a thin line and
sniffing a little as if to say she'd see about this after a while. The
judge pulled out his watch.
"Go on," he said to Stuart. "Take all the time you want."
"I got there first," continued Stuart in a flustered voice. "There
wasn't anybody in there but me and the fella that was cleaning up.
After a while the audience came in, and it got dark and the play
started, but just as I was all settled in my seat and ready to have a
good time I heard an awful row directly behind me. Somebody had
asked this lady"--he pointed to Mrs. Robinson--"to remove her hat
like she should of done anyhow and she was sore about it. She kept
telling the two ladies that was with her how she'd been at the
theater before and knew enough to take off her hat. She kept that up
for a long time, five minutes maybe, and then every once in a while
she'd think of something new and say it in a loud voice. So finally
I turned around and looked at her because I wanted to see what a lady
looked like that could be so inconsiderate as that. Soon as I turned
back she began on me. She said I was insolent and then she said
'Tchk! Tchk! Tchk!' a lot with her tongue and the two ladies that
was with her said 'Tchk! Tchk! Tchk!' until you could hardly hear
yourself think, much less listen to the play. You'd have thought I'd
done something terrible.
"By and by, after they calmed down and I began to catch up with what
was doing on the stage, I felt my seat sort of creak forward and then
creak back again and I knew the lady had her feet on it and I was in
for a good rock. Gosh!" he wiped his pale, narrow brow on which the
sweat had gathered thinly, "it was awful. I hope to tell you I
wished I'd never come at all. Once I got excited at a show and
rocked a man's chair without knowing it and I was glad when he asked
me to stop. But I knew this lady wouldn't be glad if I asked her.
She'd of just rocked harder than ever."
Some time before, the population of the court room had begun stealing
glances at the middle-aged lady with yellowish-white hair. She was
of a deep, lifelike lobster color with rage.
"It got to be near the end of the act," went on the little pale man,
"and I was enjoying it as well as I could, seeing that sometimes
she'd push me toward the stage and sometimes she'd let go, and the
seat and me would fall back into place. Then all of a sudden she
began to talk. She said she had an operation or something--I
remember she said she told the doctor that she guessed she knew more
about her own stomach than he did. The play was getting good just
then--the people next to me had their handkerchiefs out and was
weeping--and I was feeling sort of that way myself. And all of a
sudden this lady began to tell her friends what she told the plumber
about his indigestion. Gosh!" Again he shook his head from side to
side; his pale eyes fell involuntarily on Mrs. Robinson--then looked
quickly away. "You couldn't help but hear some and I begun missing
things and then missing more things and then everybody began laughing
and I didn't know what they were laughing at and, as soon as they'd
leave off, her voice would begin again. Then there was a great big
laugh that lasted for a long time and everybody bent over double and
kept laughing and laughing, and I hadn't heard a word. First thing I
knew the curtain came down and then I don't know what happened. I
must of been a little crazy or something because I got up and closed
my seat, and reached back and pushed the lady in the face."
As he concluded there was a long sigh in the court room as though
everyone had been holding in his breath waiting for the climax. Even
the judge gasped a little and the three ladies on the witness bench
burst into a shrill chatter and grew louder and louder and shriller
and shriller until the judge's gavel rang out again upon his desk.
"Charles Stuart," said the judge in a slightly raised voice, "is this
the only extenuation you can make for raising your hand against a
woman of the plaintiff's age?"
Charles Stuart's head sank a little between his shoulders, seeming to
withdraw as far as it was able into the poor shelter of his body.
"Yes, sir," he said faintly.
Mrs. Robinson sprang to her feet.
"Yes, judge," she cried shrilly, "and there's more than that. He's a
liar too, a dirty little liar. He's just proclaimed himself a dirty
little----"
"Silence!" cried the judge in a terrible voice. "I'm running this
court, and I'm capable of making my own decisions!" He paused. "I
will now pronounce sentence upon Charles Stuart," he referred to the
register, "upon Charles David Stuart of 212½ West Twenty-second
Street."
The court room was silent. The reporter drew nearer--he hoped the
sentence would be light--just a few days on the Island in lieu of a
fine.
The judge leaned back in his chair and hid his thumbs somewhere under
his black robe.
"Assault justified," he said. "Case dismissed."
The little man Charles Stuart came blinking out into the sunshine,
pausing for a moment at the door of the court and looking furtively
behind him as if he half expected that it was a judicial error.
Then, sniffing once or twice, not because he had a cold but for those
dim psychological reasons that make people sniff, he moved slowly
south with an eye out for a subway station.
He stopped at a news stand to buy a morning paper; then entering the
subway was borne south to Eighteenth Street where he disembarked and
walked east to Third Avenue. Here he was employed in an all-night
restaurant built of glass and plaster white tile. Here he sat at a
desk from curfew until dawn, taking in money and balancing the books
of T. Cushmael, the proprietor. And here, through the interminable
nights, his eyes, by turning a little to right or left, could rest
upon the starched linen uniform of Miss Edna Schaeffer.
Miss Edna Schaeffer was twenty-three, with a sweet mild face and hair
that was a living example of how henna should not be applied. She
was unaware of this latter fact, because all the girls she knew used
henna just this way, so perhaps the odd vermilion tint of her
coiffure did not matter.
Charles Stuart had forgotten about the color of her hair long ago--if
he had ever noticed its strangeness at all. He was much more
interested in her eyes, and in her white hands which, as they moved
deftly among piles of plates and cups, always looked as if they
should be playing the piano. He had almost asked her to go to a
matinée with him once, but when she had faced him her lips
half-parted in a weary, cheerful smile, she had seemed so beautiful
that he had lost courage and mumbled something else instead.
It was not to see Edna Schaeffer, however, that he had come to the
restaurant so early in the afternoon. It was to consult with T.
Cushmael, his employer, and discover if he had lost his job during
his night in jail. T. Cushmael was standing in the front of the
restaurant looking gloomily out the plate-glass window, and Charles
Stuart approached him with ominous forebodings.
"Where've you been?" demanded T. Cushmael.
"Nowhere," answered Charles Stuart discreetly.
"Well, you're fired."
Stuart winced.
"Right now?"
Cushmael waved his hands apathetically.
"Stay two or three days if you want to, till I find somebody.
Then"--he made a gesture of expulsion--"outside for you."
Charles Stuart assented with a weary little nod. He assented to
everything. At nine o'clock, after a depressed interval during which
he brooded upon the penalty of spending a night among the police, he
reported for work.
"Hello, Mr. Stuart," said Edna Schaeffer, sauntering curiously toward
him as he took his place behind the desk. "What become of you last
night? Get pinched?"
She laughed, cheerfully, huskily, charmingly he thought, at her joke.
"Yes," he answered on a sudden impulse, "I was in the Thirty-fifth
Street jail."
"Yes, you were," she scoffed.
"That's the truth," he insisted. "I was arrested."
Her face grew serious at once.
"Go on. What did you do?"
He hesitated.
"I pushed somebody in the face."
Suddenly she began to laugh, at first with amusement and then
immoderately.
"It's a fact," mumbled Stuart. "I almost got sent to prison on account
of it."
Setting her hand firmly over her mouth Edna turned away from him and
retired to the refuge of the kitchen. A little later, when he was
pretending to be busy at the accounts, he saw her retailing the story
to the two other girls.
The night wore on. The little man in the grayish suit with the
grayish face attracted no more attention from the customers than the
whirring electric fan over his head. They gave him their money and
his hand slid their change into a little hollow in the marble
counter. But to Charles Stuart the hours of this night, this last
night, began to assume a quality of romance. The slow routine of a
hundred other nights unrolled with a new enchantment before his eyes.
Midnight was always a sort of a dividing point--after that the
intimate part of the evening began. Fewer people came in, and the
ones that did seemed depressed and tired: a casual ragged man for
coffee, the beggar from the street corner who ate a heavy meal of
cakes and a beefsteak, a few nightbound street-women and a watchman
with a red face who exchanged warning phrases with him about his
health.
Midnight seemed to come early to-night and business was brisk until
after one. When Edna began to fold napkins at a nearby table he was
tempted to ask her if she too had not found the night unusually
short. Vainly he wished that he might impress himself on her in some
way, make some remark to her, some sign of his devotion that she
would remember forever.
She finished folding the vast pile of napkins, loaded it onto the
stand and bore it away, humming to herself. A few minutes later the
door opened and two customers came in. He recognized them
immediately, and as he did so a flush of jealousy went over him. One
of them, a young man in a handsome brown suit, cut away rakishly from
his abdomen, had been a frequent visitor for the last ten days. He
came in always at about this hour, sat down at one of Edna's tables,
and drank two cups of coffee with lingering ease. On his last two
visits he had been accompanied by his present companion--a swarthy
Greek with sour eyes who ordered in a loud voice and gave vent to
noisy sarcasm when anything was not to his taste.
It was chiefly the young man, though, who annoyed Charles Stuart.
The young man's eyes followed Edna wherever she went, and on his last
two visits he had made unnecessary requests in order to bring her
more often to his table.
"Good evening, girlie," Stuart heard him say to-night. "How's
tricks?"
"O.K.," answered Edna formally. "What'll it be?"
"What have you?" smiled the young man. "Everything, eh? Well,
what'd you recommend?"
Edna did not answer. Her eyes were staring straight over his head
into some invisible distance.
He ordered finally at the urging of his companion. Edna withdrew and
Stuart saw the young man turn and whisper to his friend, indicating
Edna with his head.
Stuart shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hated that young man
and wished passionately that he would go away. It seemed as if his
last night here, his last chance to watch Edna, and perhaps even in
some blessed moment to talk to her a little, was marred by every
moment this man stayed.
Half a dozen more people had drifted into the restaurant--two or
three workmen, the news dealer from over the way--and Edna was too
busy for a few minutes to be bothered with attentions. Suddenly
Charles Stuart became aware that the sour-eyed Greek had raised his
hand and was beckoning him. Somewhat puzzled he left his desk and
approached the table.
"Say, fella," said the Greek, "what time does the boss come in?"
"Why--two o'clock. Just a few minutes now."
"All right. That's all. I just wanted to speak to him about
something."
Stuart realized that Edna was standing beside the table; both men
turned toward her.
"Say, girlie," said the young man, "I want to talk to you. Sit down."
"I can't."
"Sure you can. The boss don't mind." He turned menacingly to
Stuart. "She can sit down, can't she?"
Stuart did not answer.
"I say she can sit down, can't she?" said the young man more
intently, and added, "Speak up, you little dummy."
Still Stuart did not answer. Strange blood currents were flowing all
over his body. He was frightened; anything said determinedly had a
way of frightening him. But he could not move.
"Sh!" said the Greek to his companion.
But the younger man was angered.
"Say," he broke out, "sometime somebody's going to take a paste at
you when you don't answer what they say. Go on back to your desk!"
Still Stuart did not move.
"Go on away!" repeated the young man in a dangerous voice. "Hurry
up! _Run!_"
Then Stuart ran. He ran as hard as he was able. But instead of
running away from the young man he ran _toward_ him, stretching out
his hands as he came near in a sort of straight arm that brought his
two palms, with all the force of his hundred and thirty pounds,
against his victim's face. With a crash of china the young man went
over backward in his chair and, his head striking the edge of the
next table, lay motionless on the floor.
The restaurant was in a small uproar. There was a terrified scream
from Edna, an indignant protest from the Greek, and the customers
arose with exclamations from their tables. Just at this moment the
door opened and Mr. Cushmael came in.
"Why, you little fool!" cried Edna wrathfully. "What are you trying
to do! Lose me my job?"
"What's this?" demanded Mr. Cushmael, hurrying over. "What's the
idea?"
"Mr. Stuart pushed a customer in the face!" cried a waitress, taking
Edna's cue. "For no reason at all!"
The population of the restaurant had now gathered around the
prostrate victim. He was doused thoroughly with water and a folded
table-cloth was placed under his head.
"Oh, he did, did he?" shouted Mr. Cushmael in a terrible voice,
seizing Stuart by the lapels of his coat.
"He's raving crazy!" sobbed Edna. "He was in jail last night for
pushing a lady in the face. He told me so himself!"
A large laborer reached over and grasped Stuart's small trembling
arm. Stuart gazed around dumbly. His mouth was quivering.
"Look what you done!" shouted Mr. Cushmael. "You like to kill a man."
Stuart shivered violently. His mouth opened and he fought the air
for a moment. Then he uttered a half-articulate sentence:
"Only meant to push him in the face."
"Push him in the face?" ejaculated Cushmael in a frenzy. "So you got
to be a pusher-in-the-face, eh? Well, we'll push your face right
into jail!"
"I--I couldn't help it," gasped Stuart. "Sometimes I can't help it."
His voice rose unevenly. "I guess I'm a dangerous man and you better
take me and lock me up!" He turned wildly to Cushmael. "I'd push
you in the face if he'd let go my arm. Yes, I would! I'd push
you--right-in-the-_face_!"
For a moment an astonished silence fell, broken by the voice of one
of the waitresses who had been groping under the table.
"Some stuff dropped out of this fella's back pocket when he tipped
over," she explained, getting to her feet. "It's--why, it's a
revolver and----"
She had been about to say handkerchief but as she looked at what she
was holding her mouth fell open and she dropped the thing quickly on
the table. It was a small black mask about the size of her hand.
Simultaneously the Greek, who had been shifting uneasily upon his
feet ever since the accident, seemed to remember an important
engagement that had slipped his mind. He dashed suddenly around the
table and made for the front door, but it opened just at that moment
to admit several customers who, at the cry of "Stop him!" obligingly
spread out their arms. Barred in that direction, he jumped an
overturned chair, vaulted over the delicatessen counter, and set out
for the kitchen, collapsing precipitately in the firm grasp of the
chef in the doorway.
"Hold him! Hold him!" screamed Mr. Cushmael, realizing the turn of
the situation. "They're after my cash drawer!"
Willing hands assisted the Greek over the counter, where he stood
panting and gasping under two dozen excited eyes.
"After my money, hey?" shouted the proprietor, shaking his fist under
the captive's nose.
The stout man nodded, panting.
"We'd of got it too!" he gasped, "if it hadn't been for that little
pusher-in-the-face."
Two dozen eyes looked around eagerly. The little pusher-in-the-face
had disappeared.
The beggar on the corner had just decided to tip the policeman and
shut up shop for the night when he suddenly felt a small, somewhat
excited hand fall on his shoulder.
"Help a poor man get a place to sleep----" he was beginning
automatically when he recognized the little cashier from the
restaurant. "Hello, brother," he added, leering up at him and
changing his tone.
"You know what?" cried the little cashier in a strangely ominous
tone. "I'm going to push you in the face!"
"What do you mean?" snarled the beggar. "Why, you Ga----"
He got no farther. The little man seemed to run at him suddenly,
holding out his hands, and there was a sharp, smacking sound as the
beggar came in contact with the sidewalk.
"You're a fakir!" shouted Charles Stuart wildly. "I gave you a
dollar when I first came here, before I found out you had ten times
as much as I had. And you never gave it back!"
A stout, faintly intoxicated gentleman who was strutting expansively
along the other sidewalk had seen the incident and came running
benevolently across the street.
"What does this mean!" he exclaimed in a hearty, shocked voice.
"Why, poor fellow----"
He turned indignant eyes on Charles Stuart and knelt unsteadily to
raise the beggar.
The beggar stopped cursing and assumed a piteous whine.
"I'm a poor man, Cap'n----"
"This is--this is _horrible_!" cried the Samaritan, with tears in his
eyes. "It's a disgrace! Police! _Pol_----!"
He got no farther. His hands, which he was raising for a megaphone,
never reached his face--other hands reached his face, however, hands
held stiffly out from a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound body! He sank
down suddenly upon the beggar's abdomen, forcing out a sharp curse
which faded into a groan.
"This beggar'll take you home in his car!" shouted the little man who
stood over him. "He's got it parked around the corner."
Turning his face toward the hot strip of sky which lowered over the
city the little man began to laugh, with amusement at first, then
loudly and triumphantly until his high laughter rang out in the quiet
street with a weird, elfish sound, echoing up the sides of the tall
buildings, growing shriller and shriller until people blocks away
heard its eerie cadence on the air and stopped to listen.
Still laughing the little man divested himself of his coat and then
of his vest and hurriedly freed his neck of tie and collar. Then he
spat upon his hands and with a wild, shrill, exultant cry began to
run down the dark street.
He was going to clean up New York, and his first objective was the
disagreeable policeman on the corner!
They caught him at two o'clock, and the crowd which had joined in the
chase were flabbergasted when they found that the ruffian was only a
weeping little man in his shirt sleeves. Someone at the station
house was wise enough to give him an opiate instead of a padded cell,
and in the morning he felt much better.
Mr. Cushmael, accompanied by an anxious young lady with crimson hair,
called at the jail before noon.
"I'll get you out," cried Mr. Cushmael, shaking hands excitedly
through the bars. "One policeman, he'll explain it all to the other."
"And there's a surprise for you too," added Edna softly, taking his
other hand. "Mr. Cushmael's got a big heart and he's going to make
you his day man now."
"All right," agreed Charles Stuart calmly. "But I can't start till
to-morrow."
"Why not?"
"Because this afternoon I got to go to a matinée--with a friend."
He relinquished his employer's hand but kept Edna's white fingers
twined firmly in his.
"One more thing," he went on in a strong, confident voice that was
new to him, "if you want to get me off don't have the case come up in
the Thirty-fifth Street court."
"Why not?"
"Because," he answered with a touch of swagger in his voice, "that's
the judge I had when I was arrested last time."
"Charles," whispered Edna suddenly, "what would you do if I refused
to go with you this afternoon?"
He bristled. Color came into his cheeks and he rose defiantly from
his bench.
"Why, I'd--I'd----"
"Never mind," she said, flushing slightly. "You'd do nothing of the
kind."