Part 38 (2/2)

”For the same reason that I'm going away again now,” says he. ”I've a thousand pounds a year, and not sense enough to keep myself on it, let alone a wife. So it's good-by, Katie.”

Then the weeps came, open eyed; but she didn't try to hide 'em. ”Oh, oh!” she moans. ”But I was so lonely then, and--and I'm so lonely now!”

Them few drops of brine turned the trick. ”Ah, Katie McDevitt!” says he.

”If I could bring back the old Katie! By the soul of me, but I will? You never heard of my old uncle, did you? Come with me to him, and see me make it up; for I can't leave you this way, Katie, I just can't!”

”Larry!” says she, and with that they goes to a fond clinch.

”Help!” says I, and slides through the door.

When I gets home Sadie wants to know what I've done with Mr. Bolan.

”Towed him up to Hymen's gate,” says I, ”and left him bein' yanked through by Mrs. Sam Steele.”

”Wha-a-at?” says she. ”Of all persons! And when did that start, I'd like to know?”

”Eight years back,” says I. ”She was Katie the nurse, and this is their second act. Anyway, he ducks Bulgaroo by it.”

CHAPTER XVII

BAYARD DUCKS HIS PAST

First place, Swifty Joe should have let the subject drop. Anyway, he needn't have come paradin' into the front office in his gym suit to show me his nutty theory of how Young Disko landed that knockout on the Australian in the breakaway.

”Turn over!” says I. ”You're on your back! He couldn't have done anything of the kind.”

”Couldn't, eh?” growls Swifty. ”Ahr-r-r-r chee! Couldn't give him the shoulder on the jaw! Ain't I seen it done? Say, lemme show you----”

”Show nothing!” says I. ”I'm tellin' you it was a right hook the kid put him out with, from chancery. Now see!”

With that I sheds my coat, gets Swifty's neck in the crook of my left elbow, swings him round for a side hip-lock, and bends his head forward.

”Now, you South Brooklyn kike,” I goes on, maybe more realistic than I meant, ”I got you right, ain't I? And all I got to do is push in a half-arm jolt like this, and----”

Well, then I looks up. Neither of us has noticed her come in, hadn't even heard the k.n.o.b turn; but standin' there in the middle of the room and starin' straight at us is a perfectly good female lady.

That don't half tell it, either. She's all lady, from the tips of her double-A pumps to the little gray wing peekin' over the top of her dingy gray bonnet. One of these slim, dainty, graceful built parties, with white, lacy stuff at her wrists and throat, and the rest of her costume all gray: not the puckered-waist, half-masted skirt effects all the women are wearin' now. I can't say what year's model it was, or how far back; but it's a style that seems just fitted to her: maybe one that she's invented herself. Around thirty-five, I should judge she was, from the little streak of gray runnin' through her front hair.

What got me, though, was the calm, remote, superior look that she's givin' us. She don't seem nervous or panicky at all, like most women would, breakin' in on a roughhouse scene like that. She don't even stare reprovin', but stands there watchin' us as serene as if we wa'n't anything more'n pictures on a movie sheet. And there we was, holdin' the pose; me with my right all bunched for action, and Swifty with his face to the mat. Seemed minutes we was clinched there, and everything so still you could hear Swifty's heavy breathin' all over the room.

Course I was waitin' for some remarks from her. You'd most think they was due, wouldn't you? It's my private office, remember, and she's sort of crashed in unannounced. If any explainin' was done, it was up to her to start it. And waitin' for what don't come is apt to get on your nerves.

”Eh?” I throws over my shoulder at her.

Her straight eyebrows kind of humps in the middle--that's all.

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