“Aren’t you a lot nearer to it now than you ever were?” he asked, eagerly. “Aren’t you?”
“A little bit, maybe,” she answered. “You’re a good boy, Lou, you are, and I’m always going to be straight with you. I’ll never tell you nothing but the truth.”
They kissed again, and after they had arranged to meet on the following Monday he walked down the hallway, wondering whether he should dare to hope, and hoping in spite of his wondering.
When Blanche returned from her work, on the next evening, she immediately perceived the downcast looks on the faces of her mother, Philip, and Mabel, who were seated around the living-room table.
“What’s this, anyway—’n Irish wake?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“I just couldn’t say nothin’ this mornin’, you’d have been that worried,” her mother replied, dolefully.
“Anyway, don’t you read the papers?” asked Mabel. “They’ve got it on the second page of the Herald to-night, an’ the Courier, too.”
“Harry’s been called up before the Boxing Commission,” said Philip. “He and pa went down this afternoon, and we’re expecting them back any minnit now. There musta been a leak somewhere ’bout that fake scrap he pulled night before last. They’re after him hot and heavy, and the Club wouldn’t pay him off to-day, and I think Rainey’s double-crossed him in the bargain. It looks bad all right for poor Harry!”
“Didn’t I know this was going to happen,” Blanche exclaimed. “I did think he’d get away with it once ’r twice, though, before they caught him. You’ve got to have brains ’f you want to be a crook in this world.”
“Oh, stop this I-told-yuh-so line,” answered Mabel. “Harry was only trying to look out for the rest of us, and I’m darn sorry for him.”