“Very well, thank you,” said Peter, coldly, and tried to hurry on.
But Comrade Schnitzelmann held onto his hand. “So! You been seeing dot Easter barade!” said he. “Vot you tink, hey? If we could get all de wage slaves to come und see dot barade, we make dem all Bolsheviks pretty quick! Hey, Comrade Gudge?”
“Yes, I guess so,” said Peter, still more coldly.
“We show dem vot de money goes for—hey, Comrade Gudge!” And Comrade Schnitzelmann chuckled, and Peter said, quickly, “Well, good-bye,” and without introducing his lady-love took her by the arm and hurried away.
But alas, the damage had been done! They walked for a minute or two amid ominous silence. Then suddenly the manicurist stood still and confronted Peter. “Mr. Gudge,” she demanded, “what does that mean?”
And Peter of course could not answer. He did not dare to meet her flashing eyes, but stood digging the toe of his shoe into the path. “I want to know what it means,” persisted the girl. “Are you one of those Reds?”
And what could poor Peter say? How could he explain his acquaintance with that Teutonic face and that Teutonic accent?
The girl stamped her foot with impatient anger. “So you’re one of those Reds! You’re one of those pro-German traitors! You’re an imposter, a spy!”
Peter was helpless with embarrassment and dismay. “Miss Frisbie,” he began, “I can’t explain—”
“Why can’t you explain? Why can’t any honest man explain?”