Steve rose stupidly and seized him by the arm. The woman sat up, dopily staring, her short legs widened.
“I suppose you’re going to be a little Tattle-tale,” said Steve, bludgeoning him with heavy contempt. “You’re going to run right up and tell mama, aren’t you?” he said. He fastened his yellow fingers on Eugene’s arm.
“Get off papa’s bed,” said Eugene desperately. He jerked his arm away.
“You’re not going to tell on us, buddy, are you?” Steve wheedled, breathing pollution in his face.
He grew sick.
“Let me go,” he muttered. “No.”
Steve and Margaret were married soon after. With the old sense of physical shame Eugene watched them descend the stairs at Dixieland each morning for breakfast. Steve swaggered absurdly, smiled complacently, and hinted at great fortune about the town. There was rumor of a quarter-million.
“Put it there, Steve,” said Harry Tugman, slapping him powerfully upon the shoulder. “By God, I always said you’d get there.”
Eliza smiled at swagger and boast, her proud, pleased, tremulous sad smile. The first-born.
“Little Stevie doesn’t have to worry any longer,” said he. “He’s on Easy Street. Where are all the Wise Guys now who said’I told you so’? They’re all mighty glad to give Little Stevie a Big Smile and the Glad Hand when he breezes down the street. Every Knocker is a Booster now all right, all right.”
“I tell you what,” said Eliza with proud smiles, “he’s no fool. He’s as bright as the next one when he wants to be.” Brighter, she thought.
Steve bought new clothes, tan shoes, striped silk shirts, and a wide straw hat with a red, white and blue band. He swung his shoulders in a wide arc as he walked, snapped his fingers nonchalantly, and smiled with elaborate condescension on those who greeted him. Helen was vastly annoyed and amused; she had to laugh at his absurd strut, and she had a great rush of feeling for Margaret Lutz. She called her “honey,” felt her eyes mist warmly with unaccountable tears as she looked into the
