Part 58 (1/2)
”Honest, am I, Joe?”
”Surest thing! The stage-door is my pace, and for nothing short of head-liners, neither. I gotta like a girl pretty well to hang round on the wrong side of the footlights for her, sweetness.”
”Joe, I--I wish I knew if you was kiddin'.”
”Kiddin' nothin'!”
They emerged into the white shower from a score of arc-lights; and Mr.
Joe Ullman, an apotheosis of a cla.s.sy-clothes tailor's dearest dream, in his brown suit, brown-bordered silk handkerchief nicely apparent, brown derby hat and tan-top shoes, turned his bulldog toes and fox-terrier eyes to the north, where against a fulvous sky the Palais du Danse spelled itself in ruby and emerald incandescents with the carefully planned effect of green moonlight floating in a mist of blood.
”Joe”--she dragged gently at his coat-sleeve, and a warm pink spread out from under the area of rouge--”Joe, you know what you promised for to-night?”
”What, kiddo? The sky's my limit. I'll taxi you till the meter gives out. I'll buy you--”
”You have promised so long, Joe. Come on! Let's go up home to-night. Be a sport, and let's go. Ma's got a midnight supper waitin', and--”
”The doctor says home cookin's bad for me, sweetness.”
He c.o.c.ked his hat slightly askew, stroked a chin as blue as a priest's, and winked down at her.
”Honest, sweetness, I'm going to buy you a phonograph record of 'Home Sweet Home Ain't Sweet Enough for Me'--”
”She's waitin' up for us, Joe; she ain't hardly able to be up, but she's waitin', Joe.”
”Ain't I told you I'm going up with you some night when I'm in the humor for it? I feel like a ninety-horse-power dancer to-night, Doll. Whatta you bet I sold more seats for your show to-night than the box-office?
Whatta you bet?”
”Joe--you promised.”
”Sure, and I'm going to keep it; but I'm wearin' a celluloid collar to-night, hon, and the fireside ain't no place for me. I wouldn't wanna blow your mamma to smithereens.”
”Joe!”
”I wouldn't--honest, sweetness, I wouldn't.”
”Joe, comin' to our house ain't like bein' company--honest! When the boys and girls from the store used to come over we'd roll back the carpets, and ma'd play on an old comb and Jimmie'd make a noise like a banjo, and--”
”Hear! Hear! You sound like 'Way Down East' gone into vaudeville.”
”Come on up to-night, Joe--like you promised.”
”We'll talk it over a little later, sweetness. Midnight ain't no time to call on your best girl's dame. What'll she be thinkin' of us b.u.t.tin' in there for midnight supper? To-morrow night's Sunday--that'll be more like it.”
”She got it waitin' for us, Joe. All week she been fixing every night, and us not comin'. She knows it's the only time we got, Joe. She says she'd rather have us come home after the show than go kiting round like this. Honest, Joe, she's regular sport herself. She used to be the life of her department; the girls used to laff and laff at her cuttings-up.
She's achin' to see you, Joe. She knows I we--she don't talk about nothin' else, Joe; and she's sick--it scares me to think how sick maybe she is.” He leaned to her upturned face; tears trembled on her lashes and in her voice. ”Please, Joe!”
”To-morrow night, sure, little Essie Birdsong. Gawd, what a name! Why didn't they call you--”
”They always used to call us the Songbirds at the store.”