"'Smater, sis?"
"N-nothing—only—only—old—old Hochenheimer's coming to—to supper to-night, Izzy; and—"
"Old Squash! Oh, Whillikens!"
"Take me out, Izzy! Take me out anywhere—to a show or supper, or—or anywhere; but take me out, Izzy. Take me out before he comes."
"Sure I will! Old Squash! Whillikens!"
* * * * *
At five o'clock Wasserman Avenue emerged in dainty dimity and silk sewing-bags. Rocking-chairs, tiptilted against veranda railings, were swung round front-face. Greetings, light as rubber balls, bounded from porch to porch. Fine needles flashed through dainty fabrics stretched like drum parchment across embroidery hoops; young children, shrilling and shouting in the heat of play, darted beneath maternal eyes; long-legged girls in knee-high skirts strolled up and down the sidewalks, arms intertwined.
At five-thirty the sun had got so low that it found out Mrs. Schimm in a shady corner of her porch, dazzled her eyes, and flashed teasingly on her needle, so that she crammed her dainty fabric in her sewing-bag and crossed the paved street.
"You don't mind, Mrs. Lissman, if I come over on your porch for a while, where it's shady?"
"It's a pleasure, Mrs. Schimm. Come right up and have a rocker."