"Sure," said the pink fascinator. "When?"
"I don't care," said Joe, too much embarrassed to remember the days of the week.
"To-morrer night?" prompted the girl.
"I don't care," said Joe, and the conversation seeming to lauguish, he moved on.
After countless eons of time the next night arrived. It found Joe and his girl cosily squeezed in between two fat women in the gallery of the People's Theatre. Joe had to sit sideways and double his feet up, but he would willingly have endured a rack of torture for the privilege of looking down on that fluffy, blond pompadour under its large bow, and of receiving the sparkling glances that were flashed up at him from time to time.
"I ain't ever gone with a feller that I didn't know his name before!" she confided before the curtain rose.
"It's Joe," he said, "Joe Ridder, What's your front name?"
"Miss Beaver," she said mischievously. "What do you think it is?"
Joe could not guess.
"Say," she went on, "I knew who you was all right even if I didn't know yer name. I seen you over to the hall when they had the boxin' match."