They were silent. The gas hummed. Congo let his breath out in a whistle. “Whee ... C’est chic ça, Delmonico ... Why havent you married her?”
“She likes to have me hang around.... I’d run the store better than she does.”
“You’re too easy; got to use rough stuff with women to get anything outa them.... Make her jealous.”
“She’s got me going.”
“Want to see some postalcards?” Congo pulled a package, wrapped in newspaper out of his pocket. “Look these are Naples; everybody there wants to come to New York.... That’s an Arab dancing girl. Nom d’une vache they got slippery bellybuttons....”
“Say, I know what I’ll do,” cried Emile suddenly dropping the cards on the bed. “I’ll make her jealous....”
“Who?”
“Ernestine ... Madame Rigaud....”
“Sure walk up an down Eighth Avenue with a girl a couple of times an I bet she’ll fall like a ton of bricks.”
The alarmclock went off on the chair beside the bed. Emile jumped up to stop it and began splashing water on his face in the washbasin.