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| Denny didn't want to be asked, she wanted to be told -but Mike didn't know that |
She Said Cert’n’y
by MILDRED HARRINGTON .
Illustrations by Irving Nurick
THE SEVEN-O'CLOCK rush had begun.
Denny--her back to Arlene, who queened it at the window on the street- sat in her half of the gilded ticket cage and passed out strips of blue pasteboard, made change deftly and murmured, "Thank you," at proper intervals: The queue outside Arlene's window was nearly a block long. There was a Shearer picture on, and Norma was a favorite with Stratford audiences.
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| "Gosh, you're a sweet kid, Denny," Mr. Tennant was saying, when the door burst open- and there stood Mike. "You take your dirty hands off my girl!" |
Her glance went from lounge to foyer and back again . . . A deprecatory cough recalled her to her duties. She said, "How many, please?" to a middle-aged man with a faintly wistful Lionel Barrymore smile.
Gee, he was a sweet old thing!
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Denny returned to her job in the
ticket booth to find herself
suddenly and inexplicably famous.
"Here she is, gentlemen," Mr. Rosebaum
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Denny sighed softly.
Men's eyes always passed over her in their hurry to get to Arlene. All except Mike's. She sighed again, impatiently this time. With his great shoulders and his thick red-gold hair that stood up in funny tight little curls all over his head, Mike looked - well, like a prize fighter.
She thought briefly of Maxie Baer in his grand clothes and shook her head. No, Mike didn't look like a prize fighter. Not the screen kind, anyway. He looked like a truck driver. And that's what he was. He drove a truck for his cousin, Jim Murphy. A big, ugly coal truck. "And don't you forget, Funny-face,"
Mike would say, "steering this baby carriage is a regular guy's job."
Mike didn't think much of Mannie. He called him a daisy-boy. In spite of herself, Denny shivered a little, thinking of Mike's bigness and strength. It gave her a funny feeling to remember the fine gold hairs that sprang from the backs of his hands like something alive.
Arlene flung a remark over a slim shoulder. Denny tried to catch it, but the street door was open and the "L," roaring past a block away, filled the lobby with its raucous thunder.
There was Mrs. Flaherty pushing in, dragging those two oldest kids of hers. She was puffing and blowing, her face wrinkled in anxious question. Denny pulled three tickets out of the slot.
"Feature isn't on yet, Mrs. Flaherty," she soothed. "You better hurry, though."
Gee, people who lived on Second Avenue like Mrs. Flaherty had it tough. Kids and washing and cooking, and a man with no job half the time. Denny knew. She lived on Second herself. So did Mike. Mike would probably drop in tonight to see her home. Denny frowned. It would ruin everything, having Mike underfoot, if he came.
Her glance went quickly sidewise to the street entrance and through the wide glass doors to the lounge. No, the tall, shabby young man with the slightly weary Clive Brook eyes hadn't come yet. But he would come. Denny felt it in her bones.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Rosebaum bearing down on her. He was rubbing his plump pink hands together. He did that when he was pleased, or annoyed. He stepped into the line that was shoving past her window, puckered his moist red lips against the little round hole in the glass.
"Try to look alive," groaned Mr. Rosebaum, just loud enough for Denny to hear. "Like a sleepwalker, she acts. Look at Arlene there. Got the whole line laughing. Arlene has a way, she has!"
As if Denny didn't know Arlene had a way!
A thousand ways of making other girls feel unimportant, left out. Sometimes Denny almost found it in her gentle heart to hate Arlene. She was so sure of herself and her charm; so ready of tongue. Sitting there, night after night, Denny had to listen while Arlene boasted of her triumphs, for Mannie wasn't the only male in Arlene's life. Only night before last Denny had overheard the gay young fellow who wore his soft gray felt at a rakish Clark Gable angle drawl over his change, "Hello, sweetness. Better stop smiling at me like that unless you're looking for trouble!"
Arlene was a blond menace. And Denny was -just Denny.
Soft wings of leaf-brown hair folded back from a small face shaped like a valentine. Leaf-brown eyes looked shyly out from beneath thick lashes dusted with gold. A triangle of soft white throat showed above the crisp white collar Denny had made herself. If anybody ever looked at Denny . . .
But how could they with Arlene there to look at?
Denny knew the answer to that one. They couldn't. She looked at Arlene herself. Sometimes admiringly; often enviously. Always in honest wonder.
All Denny asked was to be like Arlene. Just once to have something so thrilling to tell that the others would listen respectfully. To have Mannie ask her for a date. Not that she cared a hoot about Mannie. But if Mannie liked her enough to date her, that would mean she was the sort of girl men picked out of the crowd.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't know he was there until she saw his hand on the little shelf in front of her window. Denny told herself she would know that hand anywhere. The fingers were stained; the nails were never quite clean.
Denny guessed that Arlene would sniff at the shabby young man, but Denny knew there was something special about him. His voice was wonderful. It was low and sort of chopped off quick, like Herbert Marshall's.
It was his turn next.
Denny found it hard to look up. Shyness swallowed her. If she could only glance up boldly as Arlene did. She risked a peek through her lashes and was almost startled into crying out. He was looking at her queerly, intently. He had gray eyes that narrowed when he looked at you. Once, last week, Denny had caught him standing halfway across the foyer kind of squinting at her.
She felt her cheeks flame. He was going to say something. Denny's heart crowded up until it all but choked her. He was clearing his throat. Desperately she forced herself to smile. Now!
He said matter-of-factly, "One, please."
Denny went faint with relief. Then she burned with anger. She jerked a ticket free and slapped it down on the ledge. Who did he think he was, anyway? She gazed resentfully at his departing back in its rumpled corduroy jacket. She tried to look scornfully at his baggy flannel trousers. But as she watched the shabby young man's tall back march past Mannie into the cool dim cavern of the theater, her anger vanished and she felt cheated and lonely. There were maybe a hundred couples inside, their shoulders touching, big hands groping for small ones in the darkness. Gee, it would be fun to sit like that with a man you liked . . .
The inevitable latecomers hurried in. The feature was off to a good start. The customary mid-show lull settled over the house.
Arlene wheeled about on her high stool: She patted back a yawn with rouged finger tips. "Gosh," she moaned, "I could go to sleep and never wake up."
Denny caught her cue with the deftness of long practice. "Stepping last night?"
"We put the orchestra to bed."
"You and Mannie?"
Arlene grimaced. "Not so's you could notice it. And is Mannie wild! But, like I told him, a girl can't tie herself down to one man. How can she tell she loves a guy or not if she never sees anybody else?"
Denny watched Arlene open her vanity and settle down to a little homework on her face; watched Mannie relinquish his post to an underling and stroll over to the ticket cage. He talked across Denny as if she were not there. She was used to it, but she minded it.
"How about a sandwich and beer when church lets out?"
Arlene fluffed out her pale gold halo and dreamily considered the effect in the mirror of her vanity. "Not even if you make it fish eggs and champagne," she announced. "Baby wants to go bye-bye."
"Awright. I'll take you home."
Mannie lived in Brooklyn; Arlene roomed at her married sister's in the upper reaches of the Bronx. Mannie's gallantry would cost him an extra hour in the subway. While Denny marveled at what love would do to a man, Arlene snapped the lid of her vanity and murmured, "Save the nickel, sweetheart. James is calling for me with the car at eleven."
Mannie lifted a shoulder and stalked off. His walk was as jaunty as ever, but the twisted smile on his sallow face did not deceive Denny.
Arlene said brightly to a customer at the window, "Second show starts at nine-fifteen." And to Denny, "Gee, it's fun to go out with a real gentleman for a change. Mr. Hawley sure knows how to treat a girl."
So Arlene had let herself be picked up by the gay one who wore his hat like Clark Gable.
"Aren't you sort of s-scared?" stammered Denny. "I mean, going out with strange men?"
Arlene's amusement was edged with condescension. "Well, of course, you got to be able to tell a gentleman when you see one." Arlene had opened her vanity again. Absently she preened her hair. "Honest, Denny, if you was a blonde, which would you rather look like, Harlow or Dietrich?"
DENNY WOULD have died before she would have let Arlene guess that sirens and siren stuff held no thrill for her. What got Denny in a picture was where they showed the heroine washing a baby in one of those cute collapsible tubs, or maybe setting a bowl of flowers on the breakfast-nook table.
"Maybe, though," she thought soberly, "you got to be a siren before you can get yourself a baby or a breakfast nook."
The foyer and lounge were filling up again. Denny was busy when Mike sauntered across the foyer. He sat down just inside the lounge, where he could see Denny through one of the big glass doors.
Suddenly Denny saw the shabby young man striding toward her window. She looked haughtily in the other direction, but it didn't do any good. He said in his lazy, chopped-off voice: "What time do you get up in the morning?"
A queer way to make a pass at a girl! Denny tried to give him a freezing stare and succeeded only in looking bewildered.
"I mean," said the shabby young man impatiently, "do you have any time off during the day?"
"Every m-morning stammered Denny, "until noon. I come on at twelve."
"Fine," he said. "I paint. Pictures, you know. I'd like to paint you. Will you sit for me tomorrow morning?"
"You mean -be an artist's model?"
The young man nodded. His smile was friendly now. "Don't be afraid. I don't do nudes. I want you in that frock you have on. Here's my card. Two blocks over toward the river. Make it by ten?"
Denny swallowed. She fixed her mouth to say, "No," and was surprised to hear herself say primly: "Cert’n’y."
But no sooner was the word out of her mouth than she tried to snatch it back. Denny knew about artists and what went on in their studios.
"I-I don't know," she faltered. "Maybe I'd -better not."
The young man laughed outright, and she saw that he really looked an awful lot like Leslie Howard. This comforted her. Besides, to tell the truth, Denny couldn't help thinking that Arlene would brag a year if an artist asked her to pose for him.
"I, pay a dollar an hour," said the young man. "Is it a deal?"
Denny nodded. After all, she was going into this with her eyes open.
As the tall figure in the rumpled corduroy jacket turned away, Denny looked at the bit of pasteboard in her hand. "Hugh Tennant, Portraits," she read. She barely had time to drop the card into her bag when Mike strolled up.
"What'd that guy want?"
"Maybe he wanted to ask about the new program for tomorrow," said Denny.
Mike's glance swept the foyer, whose walls were lined with posters that told in detail about tomorrow's film, "Funny he couldn't read," grunted Mike. "He didn't look as dumb as all that."
Mike walked stiffly back to his beach chair under a rainbow-striped umbrella. Here he sat and scowled until it was time for Denny to go downstairs to the locker for her hat and coat.
They walked in silence the five blocks to the rooming house in which Denny lived on Second. Denny hadn't any folks to speak of. Two married brothers who lived in Jersey. Their wives were frankly relieved when she got a job in town and took herself off their hands.
As for Denny, she hadn't liked being dependent, and she was relieved, too, when she could look after herself. She had one Sunday a month off, and some- times she divided it between the two families. But she was always glad to get back to her own little room.
Mike lived only a few blocks away. His cousin Jim Murphy's wife before her marriage had lived next door to the nicer of Denny's two sisters-in-law. Mike was practically home-folks. Most of the time he treated her like a kid sister. But the Murphys called her "Mike's girl."
"Sure," said Mike, "Denny's my girl. You just let me catch any other feller making eyes at her." His glance met hers, and something warm and sweet flashed between them. But it was gone in a moment, and Mike was his old chaffing self again. Teasing, laughing at her. Calling her Funny-face.
Lately, he talked all the time about the truck he would have in the fall.
Standing now in the dark, grimy doorway with the "L" roaring past overhead, Denny thought of the dozens of dark, uninviting doorways up and down Second where, at this moment, other couples stood saying good night. With a gesture of distaste, she pulled away from Mike's hand on her elbow.
But Mike wouldn't let her go. He drew her into his arms. He didn't try to kiss her, but when he spoke his voice trembled. "Let's get married, Funny-face, you and me. I don't like this movie racket. Look at that feller tonight. Any guy that wants to can make a pass at you."
"Guys don’t make passes at me," Denny said. "They make 'em at Arlene."
Mike snorted. "That harebrained dame! She hasn't got sense enough to come in out of the rain."
"She cert'n'y has, too," said Denny hotly, feeling bound to take up for Arlene for some obscure reason. "She told me yesterday about a job some smart driver could get driving a delivery truck for Pack's-that swell store on Fifth. You could get it, Mike, if you wanted to."
Mike's arms fell away from her. "And wear one of them daisy-boy uniforms? Not Mike Saunders!"
"I'd think you'd want to do something better than drive Jim Murphy's dirty old coal truck."
"I do," said Mike. "I want to drive my own dirty old coal truck, and I will, too, one of these days. You just watch my smoke." Abruptly he broke off, his familiar arrogance gone again. "Aw, honey," he pleaded huskily, "don't be gettin' any of that Arlene's fool notions in that funny little noodle of yours. You belong to me. You're my girl." This time he pulled her roughly to him, bent his head to hers. But Denny thrust out at him wildly.
"Don't you touch me, Mike Saunders!"
Mike laughed at her anger. "You can’t make me mad," he said. "Come on, Funny-face, say we'll get married right away."
"No!" said Denny furiously, already halfway upstairs. "No! I don't want to get married. I want to have some fun!"
She got in bed quickly, but she was too excited to go to sleep. She was going to model for an artist. He had chosen her, with Arlene right there under his nose. It was the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her.
But next morning all her qualms returned. She was afraid to go to Mr. Tennant's studio alone. Still, she had promised, and there was the matter of a dollar an hour. After breakfast, cooked on her tiny grill, she knocked on Louise's door across the hall. Outside of Kate Murphy and Arlene, Louise was the only girl Denny knew in New York. Louise was married.
Denny told her story, and Louise agreed it would be good sense to show this artist fellow that Denny wasn't alone in the world. Louise's husband was a cop. This made Denny feel quite safe.
The house Mr. Tennant lived in was an old brownstone made over into apartments, one to a floor. The outside door was open. It was the sort of house where you push a button in the entry and somebody clicks the latch from above.
Denny and Louise climbed four flights of stairs. Mr. Tennant was waiting for them on the top landing. When he saw Louise, he looked funny.
When Denny said, "This is my girl friend, Mrs. Farrell. She's going to wait for me," Mr. Tennant looked funnier than ever, but he said, "By all means, let us observe the proprieties."
Denny was disappointed in the studio. Mostly, it was just a big bare room with an easel in the middle under a skylight. Besides a couple of chairs, the only thing you could call furniture was a broken-down couch. Mr. Tennant invited Louise to sit on the couch, and then he hurried to Denny.
"You sit in the easy-chair," he said. "By the way, what is your name?"
"Miss Keefe," said Denny. "Miss Denny Keefe."
Mr. Tennant bowed gravely. "I may call you Denny, mayn't I?"
Louise frowned, but Denny said, "Cert'n'y -if you like."
Mr. Tennant seemed to enjoy calling her Denny. He would say, "Denny, lift your chin a little." Or, "Now, Denny, don't try to pose. Just pretend you're in your booth passing out tickets." Once he said, "I'm afraid you're tired, Denny; you'd better rest." She soon learned that when he told her to rest, he meant for her to get up and walk about the room.
IT SEEMED to Denny that they had hardly got started before it was time for her to go. She and Louise were halfway downstairs when Mr. Tennant called Denny back to pay her. "Look here," he said, handing over two crumpled dollar bills, "don't bring the girl friend tomorrow. She breathes like a lady whale with the asthma."
Next morning, while Denny was pondering how to explain the situation tactfully to Louise, the problem was solved by Louise in person. She burst in to announce that Denny would have to be the guardian of her own virtue that day, for there was a sale of ruffled curtains at fifty-nine cents, and a sale was to Louise what a five-alarm blaze is to a fire buff.
Now a funny thing happened.
The less attention Mr. Tennant paid to Denny, the more attention Denny paid to Mr. Tennant. The truth was, when he let her alone and didn't tease her, Denny could feel herself sort of go every time she looked at him.·
Denny began to watch her speech. She listened to everything Mr. Tennant said, and she tried to talk like him. Grimly she taught herself to say "certainly" instead of "cert’n’y." And just when she had learned to say "grand" instead of "swell," she discovered that "swell" was one of Mr. Tennant's favorite words. Only it sounded different, somehow, when he said it. It was all very puzzling.
The upshot to all this business was that Denny dreamed more than ever over her strips of pasteboard. More than once Mr. Rosebaum had to remind her sharply that the Stratford paid her to work, not to moon.
One morning, at the beginning of her third week of posting, Mr. Tennant glanced up from his canvas -he had been painting like mad for days now-and said: "Gosh, Denny, you look like a ghost." There was real concern in his voice. "I'm a selfish brute. Here you stay cooped up in that darn movie booth three-fourths of your waking hours and I keep you cooped up here the other fourth. You’ve got to get out; take a holiday."
"Oh, I'm all right," said Denny. "I have Tuesdays off."
"Fine! Tomorrow’s Tuesday. We'll go no a spree, Denny, you and I. We'll have a bang-up dinner somewhere and take in a show. What do you say to that?"
Denny said that certainly would be swell-grand.
All day Denny hugged her picture of the next day's party to her heart. There would be a taxi, maybe flowers. And after dinner, the theater. It would be something to tell Arlene about.
She worried a good deal about what she should wear.
That night Mike dropped in to see her home. In the thick gloom of her doorway he asked her to go to a movie Tuesday night. Denny said she was sorry but she was busy. Sometimes she and Arlene swapped nights off. If Mike wanted to think she was working in Arlene's place, she couldn’t help it, could she.
Tuesday morning she was so gay over her posing that Mr. Tennant caught her high spirits. When she got up for her ten-minute rest, he grabbed her about the waist and danced her around the room. "Denny," he said, "your face is my fortune. I have a hunch you’re going to bring me good luck, and Lord knows. I could use a little luck."
Later, when Denny was getting into her coat, he said: "Meet me at four in front of St. Patrick's. We'll. take a bus up Riverside. Fresh air-that's what you need, Denny", When we get tired of riding, we'll hop off and eat. Afterward, we'll take in a movie."
A bus ride and a movie! Just what she and Mike always did. Denny bit her tongue with disappointment. But at four o’clock she was standing in front of St. Patrick's. Mr. Tennant was twenty minutes late, and he had on the same baggy flannels with the stains no 'em. But even so, there was something about him that made other girls look at Denny enviously when he caught her by the elbows and pushed her before him up the spiral staircase to' the upper deck of the bus.
Denny wore her new spring outfit. It was blue, and the saucy hat had a shallow brim that perked up over one ear.
"Denny," said Mr. Tennant, solemnly gazing down at her, "spring is here. Pay on heed to those how would tell you otherwise. I feel it in my bones. And when spring gets in my bones, Denny, I warn you, anything may happen!"
They rode all the way up to 181st Street. It was almost dusk when the big bus lumbered around and headed down Riverside again. Just before they reached the George Washington Bridge, they got caught in a traffic jam. Below them tooting taxis and honking motors did their best to make the night hideous. But above was sheer enchantment. The bridge hung like a piece of spangled black lace across the sky.
Denny's glance followed its graceful length to the lights that winked on the Jersey shore. She looked up at the night opening like a dark blue flower above their heads; down at the snarl of vehicles that had begun to crawl crabwise below.
"Denny," said Mr. Tennant suddenly, "you’re a darn pretty girl." He bent his dark head and peered beneath Denny's blue hatbrim. "You're more than that; you're a lovely girl, and I like you a lot."
The breeze from the river had suddenly gone sharp. But that was not why Denny shivered. Neither did she shiver because Mr. Tennant's arm was pressing her shoulder to his. Denny shivered because she was looking squarely down into Mike Saunders' angry eyes. Mike was driving Jim Murphy's coal truck. He was leaning out over the wheel and yelling up at Denny.
"Too bad you had to work tonight!" His voice was hoarse with rage and scorn.
Mr. Tennant's glance had followed Denny's. "Seems to know you," he said.
"Yes," said Denny faintly.
In the glare of an arc light every curl on Mike's red head seemed to' stand erect. He shook a fist in the direction of the bus, which was now slowly grinding past.
"Doesn’t seem to care for busses," said Mr. Tennant sadly. He added, "Fine head. I'd like to paint him."
They were very gay the rest of the way, but there was a hollow feeling in Denny's breast. Nothing was fun anymore. She wasn't even excited when Mr. Tennant announced they were getting off at a fashionable restaurant for dinner.
They didn't go to a movie, after all. Denny said she was tired. She hardly noticed it when Mr. Tennant hailed a taxi, but she came to sufficiently to make him set her down in front of the Stratford. She couldn’t bear to have him see the dingy house on Second.
Mike was waiting for her in the shadows of the doorway. "So you’re running out on me, are you?" he demanded so fiercely that Denny felt her soul curl in delicious terror. "Well, that's what I get for foolin' with a skirt that hangs around a movie dump."
"I'd thank you not to spy no me, Mike Saunders."
"Don't worry!" snarled Mike. "I know when I'm through."
Mike was gone, and he wouldn’t come back. He was through. He had said so. All right. Let him log
Just to prove she didn't care, Denny cried half the night.
When she woke up, she was glad that that day would be her last sitting. The next morning Mr. Tennant had to turn in the picture if he meant to show it at the annual exhidition of the Art League.
Denny was so forlorn that Mr. Tennant undertook to cheer her up. "Your truck driving friend looks like the Hermes of Praxiteles."
"Who’s he?" asked Denny listlessly.
Mr. Tennant smiled. "A Greek I'm fond of. He's dead now."
"Oh, said Denny faintly. She added, "Mike's no Greek. He's Irish-like me."
When he wiped the last brush that morning Mr. Tennant called her to look at the finished picture. There she sat behind the window her booth at the Stratford. And in front of her stretched a line of people, some old, some young, soft, hard, pretty, ugly, but all looking as if they had come to buy dreams instead of tickets.
"Like it, Denny?"
"It's sw-wonderful!"
All along Mr. Tennant had said it was a good picture. Now, out of a clear sky he lashed out, "It's lousy. Putrid! And even if it was worth carting uptown, those old fossils on the committee wouldn’t know it."
He was so sunk in gloom that he forgot to pay her. Indeed, he forgot to say good-by. "See you again sometime," he muttered, and Denny had to go away without shaking hands or anything.
The days that followed were dreary. She missed the studio; she missed Mike. In desperation, Denny dropped in at the Murphys' one Tuesday afternoon. She swallowed her pride and stayed so late that Kate had to ask her to supper. At half past six, Kate said they might as well dish up, for the boys wouldn’t be home. Jim was working late, and Mike had a date.
All through supper, Denny saw Mike sitting shoulder to shoulder with a girl in the cool dim cavern of a movie house, or dancing with colored lights swimming about them. Jealously, sharp and unexpected, stabbed her. Suddenly she knew that she wanted Mike for herself, and because she had been a silly, rainbow-chasing fool, she had let him get away from her. Denny winked back the hot tears.
Somehow, the days wore into a week; two weeks. And things got steadily worse. Mr. Rosebaum barked at Denny; threatened her with dismissal. She couldn’t keep her mind no her job -she made change wrong: gave people balcony tickets when they asked for seats in the orchestra.
Once, no her way to work she passed Mike on the truck. He was bareheaded as usual, and the slanting morning sun struck sparks from his red-gold mop.
Just then, the traffic signals changed, and Mike reached down to shift gears. For a long moment he looked into Denny's eyes; then he glanced away.
The next day was Sunday-Denny's Sunday off. She got up early and went out to Jersey to see the family. Monday morning, she caught the last possible train in and emerged from the shuttle at Grand Central ten minutes late.
When she rounded the corner to the Stratford she saw Mr. Rosebaum standing in the doorway rubbing his hands together. "He's going to fire me," thought Denny, and didn't care much.
But before she could get halfway down the block. Mr. Rosebaum advanced jauntily to meet her. His face was wreathed in smiles. Drawing Denny's hand through his arm, he strutted towards the theater beaming right and left. Mr. Goetz, who ran the stationary and greeting-card shop, beamed back from his open doorway. Ben, who owned the sandwich bar next door, waved from his. Arlene, nose pressed against her booth window, regarded Denny with open envy.
Denny thought, "Am I crazy, or are they crazy?"
Inside, the foyer was in an uproar. There was a man with a camera. Two men with cameras. Mr. Rosebaum patted Denny's arm with his free hand.
"Here she is, gentlemen," he said to the cameramen. "Here's our little lady."
Somebody shoved Denny into the ticket booth, where from force of habit she climbed up on her stool. Somebody else held a flashlight in front of her face. There was a bang and a puff of nasty-smelling smoke.
Before the fumes had cleared away, Mr. Rosebaum said in loud tones for Arlene's ear, "I want you girls should change places today."
Denny's head whirled. She was still giddy when Mannie strolled up. He leaned on the ledge of the ticket window, took out his wallet and extracted from it a sepia-colored newspaper clipping which he gazed at fondly.
"Some queen!" he observed, and spread the clipping flat against the glass. Denny looked up to find her own eyes gazing back at her. It was her picture -the one Mr. Tennant had painted. There was a name beneath it, "Far Horizon," and some smaller print. Dazed, Denny read: "This painting by an unknown artist won the Prix de Versailles which carries with it two years in Paris."
Mr. Tennant's picture had won the prize! .
"You made every Sunday gravure in town, baby. Some publicity for this joint." Mannie's bored, sooty eyes roved coldly over Arlene and came to rest, warm and moist, at the base of Denny's throat, where a little pulse fluttered with the fluttering of her heart. "You got that something, baby. How about stepping tonight?"
Denny shook her head and turned to the line which was already forming outside her window. People were smiling at her, kidding her as they always kidded Arlene.
"Hello, Mona Lisa!"
"I saw your picture in the paper yesterday, miss. It wasn't half as sweet-looking as you." This from the shy old guy with the Lionel Barrymore smile. "Look, beautiful, where you been all my life?"
It was what Denny had yearned for. It ought to be exciting, thrilling. But it left her cold-cold and numb. What was the use having people who cared nothing about you going on like that?
She felt Mr. Rosebaum standing beside her. He was smiling. He said that the artist, Mr. Tennant, had just phoned his office. He wanted Miss Keefe to come right over. Something important.
Denny was glad to get away from the curious eyes. She ran the last block to Mr. Tennant's house. The door was ajar. She went up without ringing. She found Mr. Tennant standing in the middle of the floor throwing things into a big packing case. When he saw Denny, he caught her in his arms and danced madly about the room, When they were both out of breath, he stopped and took out of his pocket a piece of paper which he waved triumphantly. Denny looked at it, startled. It was a check for a hundred dollars.
'' 'S'all right, Denny girl. I get two years in Paris. You get a hundred dollars, and you earned every cent of it!" He began dancing and singing again. "Two years in Pairs" Two years in heaven!" Suddenly he was smitten with an idea. "Denny, how would you like to go to heaven with me? I'll need a cute little angel like you to keep my harp shined up and my wings sewed on."
Denny knew, then, that Mr. Tennant was quite drunk. She said firmly, "I got to go now."
But this time, Mr. Tennant had another idea, a more urgent one. "Denny," he said, "do you know I've never kissed you? Not even one teeny little kiss!" His arms were so tight about her that she could hardly breathe, much less break loose. "Gosh, you're a sweet kid." He tried to kiss her mouth, but Denny shied away and the kiss lighted on an eyebrow.
The door burst open, and there stood Mike, his face black with rage. "You take your dirty hands off my girl!"
"Well, well, if it isn't our old friend Hermes!" Mr. Tennant sighed deeply. "Denny, you been keeping something from me?"
Mike answered that one for her. With one hand, he tore Denny from Mr. Tennant's arms; with the other he gave Mr. Tennant a beautiful sock on the jaw.
Then he grasped Denny roughly by an elbow and marched her downstairs- down four flights without a word. On the curb he stopped beside a huge yellow truck.
"Get in!" growled Mike.
"Wh-whose is it?" stammered Denny.
"Mine." Pride sounded through the bark in his voice. "Jim Murphy went on my note. Get in."
"Where are we going?" asked Denny weakly.
"City Hall. To get a license." Mike consulted the watch on his wrist. "Just time to make it."
"Oh," breathed Denny, "but my job!"
"That's all fixed. I told Rosebaum you wouldn't be back. I had to go there to find out where you were. I been lookin' for you ever since I saw the papers Sunday. Makin' a public show of yourself like that, I knew I'd have to look after you whether I wanted to or not."
A window banged open above them. They looked up. Mr. Tennant leaned far out; waved a slip of paper. It fluttered to Denny's feet. She picked it up.
"What's that?" demanded Mike.
"Wedding present," hiccuped Mr. Tennant, and banged the window shut.
Mike flung open the shiny new door of the truck. "For the third and last time, get in."
Denny glanced up and down the peaceful side street. "There's not a soul in sight," she said.
Mike took the hint. He kissed her thoroughly; and then, lifting her in his arms, he set her down on the driver's seat. He climbed in and regarded Denny soberly.
"Look, Denny," he said, "a little foolin' now and then don't hurt nobody, but you got sense enough to know life ain't no bloomin' motion pitcher, haven't you, Denny?"
Denny looked at Mike's big hand on the wheel -at the fine gold hairs that sprang up from the back of it like something alive. She shivered, not unpleasantly, and lifted her lips to his. But Mike wouldn't kiss her until she had answered him.
He said sternly: "Did you hear me, Denny?"
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