“Her hair’s bleached,” remarked the other; “an’ that rouge on her face is the reddest t’ing that ever come down the pike.”
The girl was taller than her escort; she was remarkably handsome, dressed richly, and held herself in a way that made the women whisper and the men stare. As they neared the gate, she laughing and showing her beautiful teeth and flashing her splendid eyes here and there, McGonagle leaned forward and whispered a few quick words in Murphy’s ear.
“No!” exclaimed the latter, incredulously.
“Sure t’ing! What are youse goin’ to do?”
“Why, put out the flag!”
Brennen suddenly craned his neck out of its circle of stiff linen, excitedly.
“Murphy won’t take their tickets!” he breathed, “there’s goin’ to be a run in at the start!”
All surged toward the gate; McGonagle whistled through his thumb and fore-finger; a policeman came looming along through the cigar smoke.
“Stand back, gents,” requested he. He flourished his club airily, and measured Daily with his eye. “On’y three couple allowed at the gate at a time.”
The crowd fell back disappointedly. The group at the gate were engaged in excited debate; Foley was describing aerial hieroglyphics with his clenched fist; the girl had let go his arm and was staring Murphy boldly in the eye.