Early in March Jimmy was again forced to part with his watch. As he was coming out of the pawn-shop late in the afternoon he almost collided with Little Eva.

 

“For the love of Mike!” cried that young lady, “where have you been all this time, and what’s happened to you? You look as though you’d lost your last friend.” And then noting the shop from which he had emerged and the deduction¹ being all too obvious, she laid one of her shapely hands upon the sleeve of his cheap, ill-fitting coat. “You’re up against it, kid, ain’t you?” she asked.

 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Jimmy ruefully. “I’m getting used to it.”

 

“I guess you’re too square,” said the girl. “I heard about that Brophy business.” And then she laughed softly. “Do you know who the biggest backers of that graft² were?”

 

“No,” said Jimmy.

 

“Well, don’t laugh yourself to death,” she admonished³. “They were Steve Murray and Feinheimer. Talk about sore pups! You never saw anything like it, and when they found who it was that had ditched their wonderful scheme they threw another fit. Say, those birds have been weeping on each other’s shoulders ever since.”

 

“Do you still breakfast at Feinheimer’s?” asked Jimmy.

 

“Once in a while,” said the girl, “but not so often now.” And she dropped her eyes to the ground in what, in another than Little Eva, might have been construed⁴ as embarrassment⁵. “Where you going now?” she asked quickly.

 

“To eat,” said Jimmy, and then prompted by the instincts of his earlier training and without appreciable⁶ pause: “Won’t you take dinner with me?” “No,” said the girl, “but you are going to take dinner with me. You’re out of a job and broke, and the chances are you’ve just this minute hocked your watch, while I have plenty of money. No,” she said as Jimmy started to protest, “this is going to be on me. I never knew how much I enjoyed talking with you at breakfast until after you had left Feinheimer’s. I’ve been real lonesome ever since,” she admitted

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