But here was a man from whom she could look for no such respect, a corrupt and evil-liver whom she had already practically taunted and challenged with her own show of apparent evilness. So she still tortured her handkerchief and felt the necessity of explaining herself, for the big gambler’s roving little eyes were still sizing her up, cold-bloodedly, judicially, terrifyingly.
“You’re all right, little girl,” he said genially, as his six feet of insolent rotundity came and towered over her. “You’re all right! And a little dimple in your chin, too.”
A new wave of courage seemed pumping through all of the shrinking girl’s veins, of a sudden, and she looked up at her enemy unwaveringly, smiling a little. Whereupon he smilingly and admiringly pinched her ear, and insisted that she have a “John Collins” with him.
Again she felt the necessity of talking. Unless the stress of action came to save her she felt that she would faint.
“I’m a Morning Journal reporter,” she began hurriedly.
“The devil you are!” he said with a note of disappointment, his wagging head still on one side, in undisguised admiration.
“Yes, I’m from the Journal,” she began.
“Then how did you get this card?”
“That’s a mistake in the office—the clerk must have sent you the wrong one,” she answered glibly.
“Come off! Come off! You good-looking women are all after me!” and he pinched her ear again.