Hustler Joe did not answer until the last note quivered into silence. Then he drew a long breath and turned around.
“Barrington’s daughter? What is she doing here?”
“Singin’—didn’t ye hear her?”
“But why? How happens it?” Joe demanded.
“Rotalick said she heard how that the choir couldn’t sing and that the Slavs and Poles were makin’ a terrible touse ’cause there wa’n’t no music. So she jest stepped up as pleasant as ye please an’ said she’d sing for ’em. She’s a daisy, an’ as purty as a picture. Have ye seen her?”
“Yes,” replied Hustler Joe shortly, moving away.
Ethel Barrington’s singing won her many sincere, if humble, admirers that day, but perhaps no one inside the building listened quite so hungrily for every tone that fell from her lips as did a tall, sad-eyed man who stood outside—just beneath an open window.
When the last sombre procession had moved away from the doors, and Miss Barrington herself, white and faint with weariness, stepped into her carriage, Hustler Joe left his position under the window and walked slowly toward his home.
“Yes, I’ll go back,” he muttered. “There’s nothing but hell upon earth to be gained by running away in this cowardly fashion. I’ll give myself up and take the consequences—which will be hell somewhere else, I suppose,” he added grimly. “Good God—it can’t be worse than this!”
He pushed open his cabin door and looked about him with troubled eyes. For the first time he was conscious of a fondness for the place.