Part 50 (1/2)
She began to scheme and dream--to plot ways of getting about him, of routing him out, of tearing him from his rut.
And then one afternoon at two she risked her all. It was an opportune time. Joe--wonder of wonders--was doing nothing, but sitting back like a gray wreck, with his feet crossed on his desk, and a vile cigar in his mouth. It was the first cigar in ages, and he puffed on it and brooded dreamily.
Myra came over, sat down beside him, and spoke airily.
”h.e.l.lo, Joe!”
”Why, h.e.l.lo, Myra!” he cried. ”What d'ye mean by h.e.l.loing me?”
”I'm glad to meet you.”
”Same to you.”
”I've come back from the country, Joe.”
”So I see.”
”Do you?”
”Haven't I eyes?”
”Well,” she said, flushed, bending forward, ”Joe Blaine, where have your eyes been these five weeks?”
”They were on strike!” he said, promptly.
”Well,” she said, ”the strike's over!”
They laughed together as they had not since far and far in the beginning of things.
Joe leaned near.
”Myra,” he said, ”I need an airing. Take me out and shake me out! Oh!”
he stretched his arms above his head. ”Have I been hibernating and is it springtime again?”
Myra hesitated.
”Joe.”
”Yes, ma'am!”
”I want you to take me somewhere.”
”I will.”
”To--the printery--I want to see it again.”
”Go 'long wid you! Marty Briggs and me are bad friends, see?”
She reveled in this new gaiety of his.
”Joe, you're waking up. _Please_ take me!”