This day from a motorman, loitering in uniform between runs, "Say, skinnay, whatcha weigh?"
Whatever of living tissue may have shrunk and quivered deep beneath the surface of Miss Hoag was further insulated by a certain professional pride—that of the champion middleweight for his cauliflower ear, of the beauty for the tiny mole where her neck is whitest, the ballerina for her double joints.
"Wanna come up and dance with me and find out?"
"O Lord!"—receding from the crowd and its trail of laughter. "O Lord!
Excuse me. Good night!"
A CHILD: Missus, is all of you just one lady?
"Bless your heart, little pettie, they gimme a good measure, didn't they? Here's a chocolate drop for the little pettie."
"Come away! Don't take nothing from her!"
"I wouldn't hurt your little girl, lady. I wouldn't harm a pretty hair of her head; I love the kiddies."
"Good-by, missus."
"Good-by, little pettie."