And now right here, at the critical moment, in steps fate, luck, or destiny, it doesn’t matter which, for they are all the same, and shuffles the cards for a new deal.
An automobile on Broadway bumped hard enough into the rear end of a hansom cab to almost throw the driver from his seat and to make him swear a blue streak of profane eloquence. The usual crowd collected, and in the bunch caught there by the sudden rush of curious and morbid humanity was the Old Sport. He pushed with both elbows to free himself and then stepped back testily. A girl behind him cried out with pain, and he turned suddenly around to find himself face to face with as choice a little blonde as ever carried books home from school, and, furthermore, she had a braid down her back.
“I beg your pardon, did I hurt you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid you did; you stepped on my foot.”
“Well, just take my arm and let me help you out of this crowd.”
Easy if you only know how and the chance comes your way.
The Old Sport wasn’t really old—not over forty—and he was there with the looks, and the little lady rather liked the way he framed up, as anyone could see by the way she cuddled up to him as she limped along. His heart was beating it like a yeggman coming East on a brake beam, and already he was figuring on how to handle this new proposition.
If it had been one of those other girls he would have said:
“You just send your trunk up to my place, and we’ll go around and have a talk to a minister; how about it?”
But he couldn’t say that to this girl with the pink in her cheeks and the fluffy hair that had never been up against the peroxide.