“It must be awful nice to have money enough so you can feel that way,” remarked the girl, with a curious sigh.
“That's so.” The young man craned his neck forward to look at an approaching car, then he turned again to the girl. “Say,” he whispered, pressing close to her in the hurrying throng, and speaking in her ear, “she's dead stuck on him, ain't she?” By two jerks, one of his right shoulder, one of his left, with corresponding jerks of his head, up the stairs and up Broadway, he indicated his employer and the girl who had just left on the car.
“She's a fool,” replied the girl, comprehensively.
“Think she 'ain't got no show?”
The girl sniffed.
The young man laughed happily. “Well,” he said, “I rather think he's married, myself, anyhow.”
“I don't think he's married,” returned the girl, quickly.
“I do. There's our car. Come along.”
The girl climbed after the young man on to the crowded platform of the car. She glanced back at the office window as the car rumbled heavily up Broadway, and it was a pathetic glance from a rather pathetic young face with a steady outlook upon a life of toil and petty needs.
William Allbright had lingered behind the rest, and was in the office talking with Carroll, who was owing him a month's salary. Allbright, respectfully and apologetically, but with a considerable degree of firmness, had asked for it.