When Blanche entered the living-room of her home she found that Harry and her father were in her bedroom, engaging in a highly secret confab with another man. Still resenting her day at the cafeteria, and vexed at this invasion of her private domain, she burst into anger before Philip and Mabel, who were seated at the table and waiting for the mother to bring the supper in.
“Say, what right’ve they to go in my room?” she asked. “Think I want some fella to see my slip-ons ’n’ things hanging around, and maybe sitting on my bed? I’m not going to stand for it!”
“Hush up, don’t let them hear you,” said Mabel. “I know how you feel, sure, but then it don’t happen ev’ry night. They got something up their sleeves, and they don’t even want the resta us to hear about it. I don’t see why Harry and pa can’t trust their own fam’ly, though.”
“They’re cooking up something about Harry’s next scrap,” said Philip. “He’s in there with Bill Rainey, and Rainey’s managing this here Young Thomas, the kid Harry’s gonna fight Friday night.”
“Well, I’ll stand it once, but they’d better not pull it off again,” Blanche responded, as she removed her hat and her spring coat. “My room’s my own place and I don’t want any strange men looking it over.”
Her anger had gone down to a quieter sullenness.
“Come on, Blan, get off the high perch,” Philip said. “We’ll all be rolling in money if the thing comes through.”
“B’lieve me, Harry’s going to get into trouble yet with all this crooked stuff of his,” Blanche replied. “He can’t even fight on the level any more.”
“Well, I don’t blame Harry one bit,” Mabel said. “He’s just got to play the old game, that’s all. He won his las’ bout hands down and they went and give the verdict to the other fellow.”