"Just once more, Joe."
At one o'clock the gas-flame in the hallway outside the rear third-floor apartment flared sootily and waned to a weary bead as the pressure receded. Through the opacity of the sudden fog the formal-faced door faded into the gloom, and Miss Essie Birdsong pushed the knob stealthily inch by inch to save the squeak.
"Plunk-plunk-plunka-plunka-plunk-plunk! Essie?"
"'Sh-h-h-h! Yes, Jimmie—it's only me. Why you makin' that noise? Why's the light burning? What's—"
"Essie! Essie, is that you and—"
"Ma dearie, you—What's the matter? You ain't sick, are you? What's—what's wrong, Jimmie? Please, what's wrong?"
She stood with her back to the door, her face struck with fear suddenly, as with white forked lightning, and her breath coming on every alternate heart-beat.
"Ma! Jimmie! For Gawd's sakes, what's the matter?"
The transitional falsetto of her brother's voice came to her gritty as slate scratching slate, and cold, prickly flesh sprang out over her.