“Some one,” she told herself, “is trying to frighten me. But I shan’t be frightened.”
At that she walked to the corner of the stage, took up her Fire God, slipped on her coat and prepared to go home.
“Jimmie,” she called, loud enough for anyone who might be hiding in the place to hear, “that’s all for to-night. But come again day after to-morrow. What do you say?”
“O. K.,” Jimmie shouted back.
Jeanne was to regret this rashness, if rashness it might be called.
CHAPTER XVI
THE BATTLE OF MAXWELL STREET
“But what is it?” Petite Jeanne stepped back, half in terror, as she gripped Florence’s arm and stared about her.
They had just alighted from a Halsted Street car and had entered the maze of booths, carts, rough board counters, and wagons. “This is Maxwell Street on a bright Sunday afternoon in late autumn,” replied Merry with a smile.
They were on their way, Petite Jeanne and Merry, to the promised party at which many mysterious bags and trunks were to be opened. Florence was with them; so, too, was Angelo. Dan Baker also had agreed to come at the last moment. So they were quite a party, five in all.
About these portable stores swarmed a motley throng. Some were white, some brown, some black. All, stall keepers and prospective purchasers alike were poor, if one were to judge by attire.