“Billy,” was the answer.
“Huh! Takin' a young boy to raise, eh?”
Saxon showed that the stab had gone home, and Mary was all contrition.
“Can't you take a josh? I'm glad to death at the news. Billy's a awful good man, and I'm glad to see you get him. There ain't many like him knockin' 'round, an' they ain't to be had for the askin'. An' you're both lucky. You was just made for each other, an' you'll make him a better wife than any girl I know. When is it to be?”
Going home from the laundry a few days later, Saxon encountered Charley Long. He blocked the sidewalk, and compelled speech with her.
“So you're runnin' with a prizefighter,” he sneered. “A blind man can see your finish.”
For the first time she was unafraid of this big-bodied, black-browed man with the hairy-matted hands and fingers. She held up her left hand.
“See that? It's something, with all your strength, that you could never put on my finger. Billy Roberts put it on inside a week. He got your number, Charley Long, and at the same time he got me.”
“Skiddoo for you,” Long retorted. “Twenty-three's your number.”
“He's not like you,” Saxon went on. “He's a man, every bit of him, a fine, clean man.”