“Zat was Congo’s idea.”
“Well didn’t it woik?”
“Sure.”
“Well aint there sumpen due me?”
“May you’re a veree nice leetle girl. Next week my night off is Wednesday.... I’ll come by an take you to a show.... ’Ow’s ’ustlin?”
“Worse’n hell.... I’m tryin out for a dancin job up at the Campus.... That’s where you meet guys wid jack.... No more of dese sailor boys and shorefront stiffs.... I’m gettin respectable.”
“May ’ave you ’eard from Congo?”
“Got a postalcard from some goddam place I couldn’t read the name of.... Aint it funny when you write for money an all ye git ’s a postal ca-ard.... That’s the kid gits me for the askin any night.... An he’s the only one, savvy, Frogslegs?”
“Goodby May.” He suddenly pushed the straw bonnet trimmed with forgetmenots back on her head and kissed her.
“Hey quit dat Frogslegs ... Eighth Avenue aint no place to kiss a girl,” she whined pushing a yellow curl back under her hat. “I could git you run in an I’ve half a mind to.”