“I gotta go home now, Charley.”
“It’s only ten.”
“I better go, Charley. It ain’t Saturday night.”
At the stoop of her rooming house they lingered. A honey-colored moon hung like a lantern over the block-long row of shabby-fronted houses. On her steps and to her fermenting fancy the shadow of an ash can sprawled like a prostrate human being.
“Charley!”
She clutched his arm.
“Whatcha scared about, Sweetness?”
“Oh, Charley, I—I feel creepy to-night.”
“That visit to the Morgue was enough to give anybody the blind staggers.”
Her pamphlet was tight in her hand.