“This?  Aw, this—­Say, you haven’t got those snappy black eyes of yours for nothing, have you?  This bottle here in my pocket, aw, this—­this is a—­bottle of brandy for my old woman.  First snow flurry and her left foot begins to drag like a rag with rheumatism.”

Her laughter rose, and his confusion with it.

“Sure,” she cried.

“Aw—­aw, come on, Marjie.”

“Well, of all the nerve!  My name’s private property, it is.”

“It slipped.  It said itself.  But, gee!  I like it.  Marjie!  Some little name.”

“Well, of all the nerve!”

“Come on, black-eyes.  You’re off at five and we’ll catch the five-eighteen.  Who’s going to be any the wiser?  I got something out there I want to tell you.”

“My hearing’s all right in the city.”

“It’s something I want to whisper right where I can get next to that little ear of yours.”

“You got a swell chance at that little ear of mine, nix.”

“Stingy!”

“You bet your life I’m stingy.”

“It’s a white Christmas for sure out where I live.  Come on out and let me show you a good time, little one.”

“I wish you was half as white as this Christmas is.  Honest, sometimes I says to myself, I says, ain’t there just none of you white?  Has a girl like me got to keep dodging all her life?”

“Come, sister, let’s catch the five-eighteen.”

“You better run along before you get me all rubbed the wrong way.  At five-eighteen I’ll be buying my own meal ticket, let me tell you that.”

“Then buy your own meal ticket, if that’s what’s hurting you, little touchy, and come out on the eight-eighteen.  It’s only a thirty-minute run; and if you say the word I’ll be at the station with bells on to meet you.  Come on.  I’ll show you the Christmas Eve of your life.  Be a sport, Marjie.”

“Yes, I always say, inviting a girl to be a sport is a slick way of inviting her to Hades.  I’ve seen where being a sport lands a girl, I have.  I ain’t game, maybe, but, thank God, I ain’t.  Thank God, I ain’t, is what I always say to them.”

“Well, of all the funny little propositions.”

“Well, there’s nothing funny about your proposition.”

“You’re one funny little girl, but, gee!  I like you.”

There was that in his glance and the white flash of his teeth and the pomaded air of geniality about him that sent a quick network of thrills darting through her; all her perceptions rose, and her color.

“Come on, little girl.”

“Oh,” she cried, clenching her small tan hand, and a tempest of fury flashing across her face, “you—­you fresh fellows up-town here think just because you wear good clothes and can hold down a decent job, that you—­you can put up any kind of a proposition to a girl like me.  Oh—­oh, just every one of you!”

“Well, of all the little spitfires.”

“What do you think I am?  What does every one of you, up and down town, think I am?  Do I look like I was born yesterday?  Well, I wasn’t, or the day before or the day before that.  Honest to God, if I was a nice-appearing fellow like you I’d be ashamed, I would.  I’d go out in the garden and eat worms, I would.”