Pretty Agnes, on comin' in, had taken a corner table by herself. She heard, but did not join in the talk. She even left untouched the glass of beer, which, at a word from old Jimmy, a waiter had placed before her. Silent and sad, with an expression which spoke of trouble present or trouble on its way, she sat staring into smoky space.
“W'at's wrong wit' her?” whispered Slimmy, who, high-strung and sensitive, could be worked upon by another's troubles.
“Why don't youse ask her?” said Big Kitty.
Slimmy shook a doubtful head. “She ain't got no use for me,” he explained, “since that trouble wit' Indian Louie.”
“She sure couldn't expect you an' th' Grabber,” remarked Anna Gold, quite scandalized at the thought of such unfairness, “to lay dead, while Louie does you out of all that dough!”
“It's th' rent,” said Jew Yetta. She had been canvassing Pretty Agnes out of the corners of her eyes. “I know that look from me own experience. She can't come across for the flat, an' some bum of an agent has handed her a notice.”
“There's nothin' in that,” declared Mollie Squint. “She could touch me for th' rent, an' she's hep to it.” Then, in reproof of the questioning looks of Anna Gold: “Sure; both me an' Agnes was stuck on Indian Louie, but w'at of that? Louie's gone; an' besides, I never blames her. It's me who's th' butt-in; Agnes sees Louie first.”
“Youse 're wrong, Yetta,” spoke up the Nailer, confidently. “Agnes ain't worryin' about cush. There ain't a better producer anywhere than Sammy Hart. No one ever sees Sammy wit'out a roll.”
The Nailer lounged across to Pretty Agnes; Mollie Squint, whose heart was kindly, followed him.
“W'y don't youse lap up your suds?” queried the Nailer, pointing to the beer. Without waiting for a return, he continued, “Where's Sammy?”