“Where’s my rabbit foot? Gawd, I’ve lost my rabbit foot! That means a run of bad luck, sure—”
“—’n I says, ‘Blow, you crazy rube. Whaddye take me for?’”
“Good pickings! If this keeps up I’ll be able to grab my cakes in the privilege car—sold fifty-eight postcards today—”
“Whaddye know? Gus the barker’s fell something fierce for the new kid. ’N they say Pop Bybee’s got her on percentage, as well as twelve bucks per and cakes. Some guys has all the luck—”
“Who’s the sheik in the privilege car? Don’t look like no K. P. to me. Boy howdy! Hear you already staked your claim, Nita. Who is he? Millionaire’s son gettin’ an eyeful of life in raw?”
She knew that Nita did not answer, at least not in words. Gradually talk died down; weary bodies stretched their aching length upon hard, sagging cots. Someone turned out the sputtering gas jet that had ineffectually illuminated the dress tent. Groans subsided into snores or whistling, adenoidal breathing. A sudden breeze tugged at the loose sides of the tent, slapping the canvas loudly against the wooden stakes that held it down.
Although she was so tired that her muscles quivered and jerked spasmodically, Sally found that she could not sleep. As if her mind were a motion-picture screen, the events of the day marched past, in very bad sequence, like an unassembled film. She saw her own small figure flitting across the screen fantastically clad in purple satin trousers and green jacket, her face and arms brown as an Indian’s, her eyes shielded by a little black lace veil. Crowds of farmers, their wives, their children; small-town business men, their wives and giggling daughters and goggle-eyed sons, avid for a glimpse of the naughtiness which the barker promised behind the tent flap of the “girlie show,” pressed in upon her, receded, pressed again, thrust out quarters, demanded magic visions of her—
David, his eyes streaming with onion tears, smiling at her. David reading that dreadful newspaper story—David of yesterday, saying, “Dear little Sally!” pressing her against him for a blessed minute—
And Nita, her eyes rabid with sudden, ugly passion—passion for David—Nita threatening her, threatening David—
David, David! The movie stopped with a jerk, then resolved itself into an enormous “close-up” of David Nash, his eyes smiling into hers with infinite gentleness and tenderness.