“How old are you?” repeated the girl sternly, who looked wonderfully enticing, with her coiled hair and young figure set off by the lace apron against the black working-dress.
“Thirty-six beautiful years—and one more.”
“Thirty-seven!” said the girl severely. “And what are you—nothing but a hobo!”
“Hold up!” said O’Leary suspiciously. “Is this a conspiracy? Have you been talking to Belle?”
“I have been talking to no one,” said Myrtle indignantly. “I say what I mean; and I mean it’s a crying shame to see a fine, upstanding man like you, King O’Leary, no further along than you were twenty years ago.”
“What the devil’s got into this place, anyhow?” said O’Leary, putting his hand to his forehead and sitting down before the storm.
“Why don’t you settle down?” said Myrtle, in a coaxing voice. “You can do things—you can handle men—Lord, they’d jump for you!”
“What would you have me do?” said O’Leary, not insensible to the compliment of being frowned at by a pretty face.
“You can’t go on bumming forever. Get hold of something and stick to it. You’ve got brains, and you’ve got the push, too. Why, there are thousands of men making their pile right here in little old New York that aren’t fit to hold your coat!”
By this time, King O’Leary’s early resentment had passed, and the Irish fondness for teasing had begun to twinkle in his eyes.