«And, oh, what'll be done to you'll be a plenty,» said a bettor, with anticipatory glee.
«That's my lookout,» said the «Kid,» sternly. «Fill 'em up all around, Mike.»
After the round Burke, the «Kid's» sponge, sponge–holder, pal, Mentor and Grand Vizier, drew him out to the bootblack stand at the saloon corner where all the official and important matters of the Small Hours Social Club were settled. As Tony polished the light tan shoes of the club's President and Secretary for the fifth time that day, Burke spake words of wisdom to his chief.
«Cut that blond out, 'Kid,'» was his advice, «or there'll be trouble. What do you want to throw down that girl of yours for? You'll never find one that'll freeze to you like Liz has. She's worth a hallful of Annies.»
«I'm no Annie admirer!» said the «Kid,» dropping a cigarette ash on his polished toe, and wiping it off on Tony's shoulder. «But I want to teach Liz a lesson. She thinks I belong to her. She's been bragging that I daren't speak to another girl. Liz is all right—in some ways. She's drinking a little too much lately. And she uses language that a lady oughtn't.»
«You're engaged, ain't you?» asked Burke.
«Sure. We'll get married next year, maybe.»
«I saw you make her drink her first glass of beer,» said Burke. «That was two years ago, when she used to came down to the corner of Chrystie bare–headed to meet you after supper. She was a quiet sort of a kid then, and couldn't speak without blushing.»
«She's a little spitfire, sometimes, now,» said the Kid. «I hate jealousy. That's why I'm going to the dance with Annie. It'll teach her some sense.»
«Well, you better look a little out,» were Burke's last words. «If Liz was my girl and I was to sneak out to a dance coupled up with an Annie, I'd want a suit of chain armor on under my gladsome rags, all right.»