She chafed him with rough embarrassed professionalism. In a moment she rose impatiently.
“Let’s git started,” she said. “Where’s my money?”
He thrust two crumpled bills into her hand.
Then he lay down beside her. He trembled, unnerved and impotent. Passion was extinct in him.
The massed coals caved in the hearth. The lost bright wonder died.
When he went down stairs, he found Jim Trivett waiting in the hall, holding Thelma by the hand. Lily led them out quietly, after peering through the lattice into the fog, and listening for a moment.
“Be quiet,” she whispered, “there’s a man across the street. They’ve been watching us lately.”
“Come again, Slats,” Thelma murmured, pressing his hand.
They went out softly, treading gently until they reached the road. The fog had thickened: the air was saturated with fine stinging moisture.
At the corner, in the glare of the street-lamp, Jim Trivett released his breath with loud relief, and stepped forward boldly.
“Damn!” he said. “I thought you were never coming. What were you trying to do with the woman, Legs?” Then, noting the boy’s face, he added quickly, with warm concern: “What’s the matter,’Gene? Don’t you feel good?”
“Wait a minute!” said Eugene thickly. “Be all right!”
He went to the curb, and vomited into the gutter. Then he straightened, mopping his mouth with a handkerchief.
“How do you feel?” asked Jim Trivett. “Better?”
“Yes,” said Eugene, “I’m all right now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” said Jim Trivett chidingly.
“It came on all of a sudden,” said Eugene. He added presently: “I think it was something I ate at that damn Greek’s to-night.”
“I felt all right,” said Jim Trivett. “A cup of coffee will fix you up,” he added with cheerful conviction.
