She grasped at his coat sleeve, pinching the flesh with it, and he drew away half angrily.

“Come on, I said.”

“All right!”

A thin line filed past them, grim-faced, silent.  At the far end of the room, statistics in red inch-high type ran columnwise down the wall’s length.  She read, with a gasp in her throat: 

    1.  Ten thousand people died from tuberculosis in the city of New
    York last year.

    2.  Two hundred thousand people died from tuberculosis in the United
    States last year.

    3.  Records of the Health Department show 31,631 living cases of
    tuberculosis in the city of New York.

    4.  Every three minutes some one in the United States dies from
    consumption.

“Oh, Charley, ain’t it awful!”

At a desk a young man, with skin as pink as though a strong wind had whipped it into color, distributed pamphlets to the outgoing visitors—­a thin streamlet of them; some cautious, some curious, some afraid.

“Come on; let’s hurry out of here, Sweetness.  My lung’s hurting this minute.”

They hurried past the desk; but the young man with the clear, pink skin reached over the heads of an intervening group, waving a long printed booklet toward the pair.

“Circular, missy?”

Sara Juke straightened, with every nerve in her body twanging like a plucked violin-string, and her eyes met the clear eyes of the young clerk.

Like a doll automaton she accepted the booklet from him; like a doll automaton she followed Charley Chubb out into the street, and her limbs were trembling so she could scarcely stand.

“Gotta hand it to you, Sweetness.  Even made a hit on the fellow in the lung-shop!  He didn’t hand me out no literachure.  Some little hit!”

“I gotta go home now, Charley.”

“It’s only ten.”

“I better go, Charley.  It ain’t Saturday night.”

At the stoop of her rooming-house they lingered.  A honey-colored moon hung like a lantern over the block-long row of shabby-fronted houses.  On her steps and to her fermenting fancy the shadow of an ash-can sprawled like a prostrate human being.

“Charley!” She clutched his arm.

“Whatcha scared about, Sweetness?”

“Oh, Charley, I—­I feel creepy to-night.”

“That visit to the morgue was enough to give anybody the blind staggers.”

Her pamphlet was tight in her hand.  “You ain’t mad at me, Charley?”

He stroked her arm, and the taste of tears found its way to her mouth.

“I’m feeling so silly-like to-night, Charley.”

“You’re all in, kiddo.”  In the shadow he kissed her.

“Charley, you—­you mustn’t, unless we’re—­engaged.”  But she could not find the strength to unfold herself from his arms.  “You mustn’t, Charley!”

“Great little girl you are, Sweetness—­one great little girl!”