"Catherine."
McCartney gazed at her intently.
"Look here, do you think those folks in there would help you?"
"I don't know. It's better than the Island."
"Don't try it," advised McCartney. "They'd think you were working some game on 'em. Leave this graft to me."
The woman started back, half frightened, but McCartney's smile reassured her.
"Here's yours on account." He handed her the five-dollar bill he had secured from the Germans. "I know how. You don't. You need it. I don't." He waved aside her thanks. "Now go home, and, listen to me, don't take Dan back—he's no good."
The woman hurried away, and with her departure silence fell again.
McCartney seated himself upon the curb and lit still another cigarette, eying the door expectantly. Once he arose and dropped a piece of silver into the poorbox inside the porch, listening intently to the loud rattle it made in falling. It was clearly the sole occupant, for no answering clink came in response.
"Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun,"