“Sure it was,” answered the girl with spirit.  “Why, what do you think?  Do you suppose I’d lie to you?  Go down to the shop and ask ’em.  I handed it to you on the level.”

“On the dead level?” said Cork.  “That’s the way I want it; because—­”

“Because what?”

“I throw up my hands,” said Cork.  “You’ve got me goin’.  You’re the girl I’ve been lookin’ for.  Will you keep company with me, Ruby?”

“Would you like me to—­Eddie?”

“Surest thing.  But I wanted a straight story about—­about yourself, you know.  When a fellow had a girl—­a steady girl—­she’s got to be all right, you know.  She’s got to be straight goods.”

“You’ll find I’ll be straight goods, Eddie.”

“Of course you will.  I believe what you told me.  But you can’t blame me for wantin’ to find out.  You don’t see many girls smokin’ cigarettes in places like Rooney’s after midnight that are like you.”

The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes.  “I see that now,” she said meekly.  “I didn’t know how bad it looked.  But I won’t do it any more.  And I’ll go straight home every night and stay there.  And I’ll give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie—­I’ll cut ’em out from this minute on.”

Cork’s air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.  “A lady can smoke,” he decided, slowly, “at times and places.  Why?  Because it’s bein’ a lady that helps her pull it off.”

“I’m going to quit.  There’s nothing to it,” said the girl.  She flicked the stub of her cigarette to the floor.

“At times and places,” repeated Cork.  “When I call round for you of evenin’s we’ll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a puff or two.  But no more Rooney’s at one o’clock—­see?”

“Eddie, do you really like me?” The girl searched his hard but frank features eagerly with anxious eyes.

“On the dead level.”

“When are you coming to see me—­where I live?”

“Thursday—­day after to-morrow evenin’.  That suit you?”

“Fine.  I’ll be ready for you.  Come about seven.  Walk to the door with me to-night and I’ll show you where I live.  Don’t forget, now.  And don’t you go to see any other girls before then, mister!  I bet you will, though.”

“On the dead level,” said Cork, “you make ’em all look like rag-dolls to me.  Honest, you do.  I know when I’m suited.  On the dead level, I do.”

Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.  The loud crashes resounded in the room above.  Only a trip-hammer or a policeman’s foot could have been the author of those sounds.  Rooney jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric lights and hurried swiftly below.  The room was left utterly dark except for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes.  A second volley of crashes came up from the assaulted door.  A little, rustling, murmuring panic moved among the besieged guests.  Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring, could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table to table.