"Oh, shut your face," he growled; "you make me tired."
And he began to whistle a light-hearted ditty. Rachel might just as well have gone to Jake Goldfogle and have asked him, for the same reasons, not to drive her cousin so hard. She might just as well have asked you or me to pay a decent price for our clothes. Harry Klein, just like Mr. Goldfogle—just like you and me—needed the money.
"Where's 'Blow Away'?" he asked, interrupting his whistling.
"He's asleep," Rachel said.
"Well—we'll wake him up."
They turned down a side street.
"Jake," Rachel began again, "I'll find you some other girl—I'll do anything for you. Oh, Jake, please."
"Shut up," he growled. "Tell your troubles to a policeman."
They went up three flights of dirty stairs to a door which Rachel opened with a latch-key. It gave on a long hall. Turning to the left, they entered a parlor fitted out with cheap plush furniture. The windows were closed, the air heavy with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke—all the varied stenches of a debauch.