Sometimes the admonition was unnecessary. The day George Browne took a real cut at the ball and banged it over the ropes in right field Vonnie hopped into a chair and shouted, "The blessed lamb! Oh, you Georgie boy! Watch that kid go. Look at him, Peter, he runs just like my Michael."
Michael was Vonnie's white dog, said to be a Highland terrier. When Peter took Vonnie home to One Hundred and Sixty-eighth Street it had become the custom for him to wait down in the street while she got Michael and took him a turn around the block before saying good night to Peter. Vonnie had a good deal to say about Michael from time to time, which was calculated to embarrass Peter. "You got to get me a book for Michael," she told Peter.
"What sort of a book?"
"Well, I guess it's called 'What a Young Dog Ought to Know.' He don't know any of the facts about life. I can take that dog past a million lamp-posts and ten minutes after I get him back in the flat I've got to lick him. Maybe you could give him a little plain talk, Peter. Coming from a man, you know, it'd carry more weight with him."
After Peter had known Vonnie for two months she did move to Two Hundred and Forty-second Street. Peter took her out to supper a week later and made the long journey up town. She was more subdued than usual as they stood at the door of the apartment house. He put both hands on her shoulders and leaned down to kiss her good night.
"Don't you like me, Peter?" she said.
"Of course I do. You know that."
"I don't want you to go away, now. I don't want you to go away tonight."
"I've got to."
"Why have you got to?"