“‘Oh, no,’ she said.

“‘Will you catch hold of my arm?’ I asked her.

“She looked first in my face, and then she slipped in her hand so prettily that it sent all the words from my tongue.  ’You’ve just come to Bridgeport, ain’t you?’ she said timidly.

“‘I have,’ I said, ’and I want you to know the truth.  I came because I had to get out of Fall River.  I had a scrap—­more than one of them.’

“‘Did you lick your man?’ she said, glancing at me.

“’I licked every one of them, and it was good and fair fighting—­if I was on a tear,’ I said; ‘but I’m ashamed of it now.’

“‘You’re Larry Moore, who pitched on the Fall Rivers last season?’ she said.

“‘I am.’

“‘You can pitch some!’ she said with a nod.

“‘When I’m straight I can.’

“’And why don’t you go at it like a man then?  You could get in the Nationals,’ she said.

“‘I’ve never had anyone to work for—­before,’ I said.

“‘We go down here; I’m staying at Keene’s boarding-house,’ she said at that.

“I was afraid I’d been too forward; so I kept still until we came to the door.  Then I pulled off my hat and made her a bow and said:  ’Will you let me walk home with you steady, Fanny Montrose?’

“And she stopped on the door-step and looked at me without saying a word, and I asked it again, putting out my hand, for I wanted to get hold of hers.  But she drew back and reached for the knob.  So I said: 

“‘You needn’t be frightened; for it’s me that ought to be afraid.’

“‘And what have you to be afraid of, you great big man?’ she said, stopping in wonder.

“’I’m afraid of your big black eyes, Fanny Montrose, ’I said, ’and I’m afraid of your slip of a body that I could snap in my hands,’ I said; ‘for I’m going to fall in love with you, Fanny Montrose.’

“Which was a lie, for I was already.  With that I ran off like a fool.  I ran off, but from that night I walked home with Fanny Montrose.

“For a month we kept company, and Bill Coogan and Dan Farrar and the rest of them took my notice and kept off.  The women laughed at me and sneered at her; but I minded them not, for I knew the ways of the factory, and besides there wasn’t a man’s voice in the lot—­that I heard.

“But one night as we were wandering back to Keene’s boarding-house, Fanny Montrose on my arm, Bill Coogan planted himself before us, and called her something to her face that there was no getting around.

“I took her on a bit, weeping and shaking, and I said to her:  ’Stand here.’

“And I went back, and caught Bill Coogan by the throat and the belt, and swung him around my head, and flung him against the lamp-post.  And the post broke off with a crash, and Coogan lay quiet, with nothing more to say.

“I went back to Fanny Montrose, who had stopped her crying, and said, shaking with anger at the dirty insult:  ’Fanny Montrose, will you be my wife?  Will you marry me this night?’