“Mart and Mag scrapping?” postulated Mr. Cassidy. “Didn’t know they ever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge holder?”
One of Mrs. Cassidy’s eyes sparkled like a diamond. The other twinkled at least like paste.
“Oh, oh,” she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in the feminine ejaculatory manner. “I wonder if—wonder if! Wait, Jack, till I go up and see.”
Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above out from the kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced Mrs. Fink.
“Oh, Maggie,” cried Mrs. Cassidy, in a delighted whisper; “did he? Oh, did he?”
Mrs. Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum’s shoulder and sobbed hopelessly.
Mrs. Cassidy took Maggie’s face between her hands and lifted it gently. Tear-stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety, pink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, unbruised, unmarred by the recreant fist of Mr. Fink.
“Tell me, Maggie,” pleaded Mame, “or I’ll go in there and find out. What was it? Did he hurt you—what did he do?”
Mrs. Fink’s face went down again despairingly on the bosom of her friend.
“For God’s sake don’t open that door, Mame,” she sobbed. “And don’t ever tell nobody—keep it under your hat. He—he never touched me, and—he’s—oh, Gawd—he’s washin’ the clothes—he’s washin’ the clothes!”