"You know her—wh-what's her name?"
Tweet turned and looked at Hiram's red face in mild surprise.
"Wh-what's wrong with you?" he queried.
"Nothin'"—sheepishly.
"Well, I'll be dog-goned if I don't believe you're gun shy on the female question!" was Tweet's conviction. "These frisky Frisco pullets goin' to your head, Hooker. A little paint and a little powder and a frowsy topknot seems to sorta touched some new funny bone in you, eh? Heavens, I remember how I fell for it years ago!"
Hiram closed his lips tight. He hated Tweet.
Tweet slapped him on the back and laughed.
"Forget it, Hiram," he advised familiarly. "It ain't like me to roast anybody when I see it hurts. Why, le's see now—I don't know the kid's name. I've heard the men call her Lucy—that's all. I been eatin' there right along—that is, up till yesterday mornin'. She seems to be popular with the fellas. Not a bad little kid, though, I take it. Got some savvy, at any rate. Ain't content with her lowly lot—and that's my kind. Oughtn't to make customers have to call her away from that typewriter, though—I don't like that. Well," he switched abruptly, "what you been thinkin' about our little deal?"
"Nothing," Hiram retorted resentfully.
They had been slowly walking down the street. Tweet stopped short and looked at him.