“Sure, a hero is a male shero,” I told him; “you learn that in the third grade. Just the same as a cowardice is a female coward.”
“You make me sick!” he yelled.
“I’ve heard of gasoline rags and dish rags and wash rags,” I kept up, “but I never saw any noble ones. Have your own way. I should worry.”
“It’s a good name for a chapter,” he said.
“I wouldn’t know a noble rag if I met one in the street,” I told him.
So that’s how this chapter got its name, and I don’t know what it means any more than you do. I suppose the next one will be called “Trash Paper,” or something like that.
Well, anyway, I stood on that doorstep for a few minutes, because I didn’t know what to do next. I was sure the fellow went in there, but I didn’t know where he went and anyway, I didn’t have any excuse to hunt him out because I was only tracking him for a stunt. Anyway I went in and when I got upstairs one flight I saw just a sign of that print in the hall just in front of a door. The hall was all dirty and greasy like.
So by that I was pretty sure he had gone in there and you see how I tracked him all the way from Marshtown landing. Then I made up my mind that he sure wouldn’t be mad if he knew I did it just for a stunt and I’d tell him I was scouting. For just a minute I was scared, then I gave a rap on the door.
Oh, but it was dark and it smelled bad in that hall. I guess they ought to tear down that row of tenements. Pretty soon I rapped again, and I felt kind of funny, because I didn’t know what I ought to say—especially if a woman opened it. All of a sudden it opened very soft, and, good night! who should be standing there but—who do you think?
Westy Martin.