“Foot pretty bad, Kid?” was the way he broke the ice.
“Oh, no, thank you, it’s all right now, but it hurt me a lot at first.”
“Live far from here?” he came back again.
“No, not very far; only Fifty-third street.”
There was only ten blocks to go, and when they got to the last one he knew all about her. He knew that she was living with her aunt, and that she was taking music lessons because some day she hoped to be able to teach. As they paused for a moment on the corner, he said:
“If you should happen along on Forty-second street to-morrow about 2, I’ll be glad to see you.”
It was a bit crude, but it went all right and the date was made. When she walked away he stood looking after her, and he noticed that she had a nice trim figure, a dainty little foot and that she stepped out like a thoroughbred.
“You for me,” he remarked, and then he hustled back to find some one he could treat, so great was his joy.
So there’s the picture, to use a theatrical term, and the curtain goes down on it for the end of the first act.
Now, you and I and some of the rest of the thirsty crowd will go out and have a drink between acts, but it’s a warm night and instead of one drink there’s half a dozen. Time flies when you’re in good company and the Old Sport was taking no chances. Ten interviews with the girl—ten good, square, honest talks at the rate of a talk a day—and she consented to take a chance with him and tell the folks afterward. He was on the level, though, and when she went home a couple of days later she had the little certificate with her, and after a few tears Auntie was invited around to visit her new nephew and look over the new house.