He released her suddenly, plunged his hands into his pockets, and slumped in his shoulders.
"I don't, don't I? That's the way with you girls—a fellow ties hisself up like a broken arm in a sling, and that's the thanks he gets! Ain't I quit playin' pool? Didn't I swear to you on your little old Sunday-school book to cut out pool? Didn't the whole gang gimme the laff? Ain't I cuttin' everything—ain't I?—pool and cards—pool and all?"
"I know, Joe; but—"
"You gotta quit naggin' me about the fireside game, sis. I'm going to meet your dame some day—sure I am; but you gotta let me take my time. You gotta let me do it my way—you gotta quit naggin' me. A fellow can't stand for it."
"She's sick, Joe."
"Sure she is; and to-morrow night we'll buy her an oyster loaf or something and take it home to her. How's that, kiddo?"
"That ain't what she wants, Joe—it's us."
"I just ain't home-broke—that's all's the matter with me. Put me in a parlor, and I get weak-kneed as a cat—bashful as a banshee! You gotta let me do it my way, Peaches and Cream. Just like a twenty-five-cent order of 'em you look, with them eyes and cheeks and hair. To-morrow night, sweetness—huh?"
"Honest, Joe?"
"Cross my heart and bet on a dark horse!"