She promised she would not. "Oh, Johnnie," she cried again, having taken a second view of him from still another angle, and in another light, "that khaki's almost the color of your hair!"—which partly took the joy out of things!
Yet, under the circumstances, no pang of any sort could endure very long. Particularly as—following the proper signal—Johnnie went to Mrs. Kukor's, Cis at his brown heels. Arrived, he saluted an astonished lady who did not at first recognize him; then he took off the new hat to her. She was quite stunned (naturally), and could only sink into a rocker, hands waving, round head wagging. But next, a very torrent of exclamations, all in Yiddish. After that, "Soch stylish!" she gasped rapturously. "Pos-i-tivvle!"
Back in the flat again, Johnnie took off the uniform. That called for will power; but he dared not longer risk his prized possession. Late that night, when Big Tom had eaten to repletion of the watermelon, and smoked himself to sleep on one of One-Eye's cigars, Johnnie reached in around the jamb of Cis's door and cautiously drew that big suit box to him. In the morning it would have to join the books upstairs. However, for a happy, dark hour or two he could enjoy the outfit. How crisp and clean and strong it felt! Blushing at his own foolishness, he lifted the cowboy's gift to his lips and kissed it.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ANOTHER STORY
THE first Sunday in September was a day that Johnnie was never to forget. Big Tom, Grandpa, Cis, and he—all were gathered about the kitchen table for the noon meal when Father Pat and One-Eye came in, the Father without his usual cheery greeting, though there was nothing downcast in his look or manner. On the contrary, something of pride was in his step, slow as that step was, and also in his glance, which instantly sought out Johnnie. The face of the cowboy, however, was stern, and that single eye, greener than either—or both—of the Father's, was iron-hard and coldly averted.
As the hall door shut at their backs, the priest raised his right hand in a gesture which was partly a salutation, partly a blessing. "Barber," he began solemnly (the longshoreman, having given the visitors a swift and surly look, had gone on busily with his eating), "we've come this mornin' about the Blake matter."
Startled, Big Tom threw down his knife and rose, instantly on the defensive; and Johnnie and Cis, watching, understood at once that "the Blake matter" was one known to the longshoreman, not welcomed by him, though most important. "Oh, y' seen that guy, Davis, eh?" he demanded.
"Not one hour ago," answered the priest, quietly.