“Well, ’s a matter of fact, I just got on to it to-day. Ran into Burke McCullough on Sixth Avenue, and he gave me the tip.”
“Oh!” A forlorn little “Oh!” it was. She had pictured him proudly planning to surprise her. And she longed to have the best possible impression of him, because of a certain plan which was hotly being hammered out in her brain. She went on, as brightly as possible:
“And they gave you an advance? That’s fine.”
“Well, no, they didn’t, exactly, but Burke introduced me to his clothier, and I got a swell line of credit.”
“Oh!”
“Now for the love of Pete, don’t go oh-ing and ah-ing like that. You’ve handed me the pickled visage since I got the rowdy-dow on my last job—good Lord! you acted like you thought I liked to sponge on you. Now let me tell you I’ve kept account of every red cent you’ve spent on me, and I expect to pay it back.”
She tried to resist her impulse, but she couldn’t keep from saying, as nastily as possible: “How nice. When?”
“Oh, I’ll pay it back, all right, trust you for that! You won’t fail to keep wising me up on the fact that you think I’m a drunken bum. You’ll sit around all day in a hotel and take it easy and have plenty time to figger out all the things you can roast me for, and then spring them on me the minute I get back from a trip all tired out. Like you always used to.”
“Oh, I did not!” she wailed.
“Sure you did.”