“Aw, get a move on, can't you?” a man's voice interrupted.
Behind her the speaker had partly emerged from the darkness. No workingman, Saxon could see that—lower in the world scale, despite his good clothes, than any workingman.
“I'm comin', if you'll only wait a second,” Mary placated.
And by her answer and its accents Saxon knew that Mary was afraid of this man who prowled on the rim of light.
Mary turned to her.
“I got to beat it; good bye,” she said, fumbling in the palm of her glove.
She caught Saxon's free hand, and Saxon felt a small hot coin pressed into it. She tried to resist, to force it back.
“No, no,” Mary pleaded. “For old times. You can do as much for me some day. I'll see you again. Good bye.”
Suddenly, sobbing, she threw her arms around Saxon's waist, crushing the feathers of her hat against the load of wood as she pressed her face against Saxon's breast. Then she tore herself away to arm's length, passionate, quivering, and stood gazing at Saxon.
“Aw, get a hustle, get a hustle,” came from the darkness the peremptory voice of the man.