“When she quit, I had to jam him back.

“For an encore she sang a reg’lar American song, with music to it.  When she reached the chorus she stopped.  Then away up in the balcony sounded the tiny treble of a boy’s soprano, sweet as the ring of silver.  The audience turned, to a man, and we seen, perched among the newsboys, the littlest, golden-haired youngster, ’bout the size of your thumb, his eyes glued to the face of his mother on the stage below, pourin’ out his lark song, serious and frightened.  Twice he done it, while by main stren’th I held his father to the enjoyments of a two-dollar orchestra chair.

“‘Let us in,’ we says, three minutes later, to the stranger at the stage door, but he looked upon us with unwelcome, like the seven-headed hydrant of Holy Writ.

“‘It’s agin’ the rules,’ says he.  ’You kin wait in the alley with the other Johnnies.’

“I ain’t acclimated to the cold disfavour of a stage door, never having soubretted along the bird and bottle route.  I was for the layin’ on of hands.  Moreover, I didn’t like the company we was in, ‘Johnnies,’ by designations of the Irish terrier at the wicket.  They smoked ready-made cigarettes, and some of ’em must have measured full eight inches acrost the chest.

“’Let us stroll gently but firmly into, over, and past the remains of this party, to the missus,’ says I, but Morrow got seized with the shakes, of a sudden.

“‘No, no.  We’ll wait here.’

“At last she come out, steppin’ high.  When she moved she rustled and rattled like she wore sandpaper at the ankles.

“Say, she was royal!  She carried the youngster in her arms, sound asleep, and it wasn’t till she stepped under the gaslight that she seen us.

“‘Oh!’ she cried, and went white as the lace of her cloak.  Then she hugged the kiddie clost to her, standing straight and queenly, her eyes ablaze, her lips moist, and red, and scornful.

“God, she was grand—­but him?  He looked like a barnacle.

“‘Olive!’ says he, bull-froggy, and that’s all.  Just quit like a dog and ate her up by long-distance eyesight.  Lord!  Nobody would have knowed him for the same man that called the crookedest gamblers on the Yukon, and bolted newspaper men raw.  He had ingrowing language.  It oozed out through his pores till he dreened like a harvest hand.  I’d have had her in my arms in two winks, so that all hell and a policeman couldn’t have busted my holt till she’d said she loved me.

“She shrivelled him with a look, the likes of which ain’t strayed over the Mason-Dixon line since Lee surrendered, and swept by us, invitin’ an’ horspitable as an iceberg in a cross sea.  Her cab door slammed, and I yanked Morrow out of there, more dead than alive.

“‘Let me go home,’ says he wearily.