“No, no,” says Pinckney, and then he explains about finding Uncle Aloysius, windin’ up by askin’ Spotty how he’d like to go up there and live.
“I don’t know,” says Spotty. “Good ways off, ain’t it!”
“It is, rather,” admits Pinckney; “but that need not trouble you. What do you think I am going to do for you, Spotty?”
“Give it up,” says he, calmly lightin’ a match and proceedin’ with the smoke.
“Well,” says Pinckney, “because of the long and faithful service of your father, and the many little personal attentions he paid me, I am going to give you—— Wait! Here it is now,” and hanged if Pinckney don’t fork over ten new twenty-dollar bills. “There!” says he. “That ought to be enough to fit you out well and take you there in good shape. Here’s the address too.”
Does Spotty jump up and crack his heels together and sputter out how thankful he is? Nothin’ so strenuous. He fumbles the bills over curious for a minute, then wads ’em up and jams ’em into his pocket. “Much obliged,” says he.
“Come around to Shorty’s with your new clothes on to-morrow afternoon about four o’clock,” says Pinckney, “and let us see how you look. And—er—by the way, Spotty, is that a friend of yours?”
I’d been noticin’ her too, standin’ just inside the doorway pipin’ us off. She’s a slim, big-eyed, black-haired young woman, dressed in the height of Grand-st. fashion, and wearin’ a lot of odd, cheap lookin’ jewelry. If it hadn’t been for the straight nose and the thin lips you might have guessed that her first name was Rebecca.
“Oh, her?” says Spotty, turnin’ languid to see who he meant. “That’s Mareena. Her father runs the shop.”
“Armenian?” says I.