Stephen Crane - Ultimate Collection: 200+ Novels, Short Stories & Poems - Stephen Crane

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motioned at her violently. "Sh!" they whispered. Their countenances were very impressive.

      "What's the matter with you fellows?" asked Florinda in her ordinary tone; whereupon they made gestures of still greater wildness. "S-s-sh!"

      Florinda lowered her voice properly. "Who is over there?"

      "Some swells," they whispered.

      Florinda bent her head. Presently she gave a little start. "Who is over there?" Her voice became a tone of deep awe. "She?"

      Wrinkles and Grief exchanged a swift glance. Pennoyer said gruffly, "Who do you mean?"

      "Why," said Florinda, "you know. She. The—the girl that Billie likes."

      Pennoyer hesitated for a moment and then said wrathfully: "Of course she is! Who do you suppose?"

      "Oh!" said Florinda. She took a seat upon the divan, which was privately a coal-box, and unbuttoned her jacket at the throat. "Is she—is she—very handsome, Wrink?"

      Wrinkles replied stoutly, "No."

      Grief said: "Let's make a sneak down the hall to the little unoccupied room at the front of the building and look from the window there. When they go out we can pipe 'em off."

      "Come on!" they exclaimed, accepting this plan with glee.

      Wrinkles opened the door and seemed about to glide away, when he suddenly turned and shook his head. "It's dead wrong," he said, ashamed.

      "Oh, go on!" eagerly whispered the others. Presently they stole pattering down the corridor, grinning, exclaiming, and cautioning each other.

      At the window Pennoyer said: "Now, for heaven's sake, don't let them see you!—Be careful, Grief, you'll tumble.—Don't lean on me that way, Wrink; think I'm a barn door? Here they come. Keep back. Don't let them see you."

      "O-o-oh!" said Grief. "Talk about a peach! Well, I should say so."

      Florinda's fingers tore at Wrinkle's coat sleeve. "Wrink, Wrink, is that her? Is that her? On the left of Billie? Is that her, Wrink?"

      "What? Yes. Stop punching me! Yes, I tell you! That's her. Are you deaf?"

      CHAPTER XXXI.

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      In the evening Pennoyer conducted Florinda to the flat of many fire-escapes. After a period of silent tramping through the great golden avenue and the street that was being repaired, she said, "Penny, you are very good to me."

      "Why?" said Pennoyer.

      "Oh, because you are. You—you are very good to me, Penny."

      "Well, I guess I'm not killing myself."

      "There isn't many fellows like you."

      "No?"

      "No. There isn't many fellows like you, Penny. I tell you 'most everything, and you just listen, and don't argue with me and tell me I'm a fool, because you know that it—because you know that it can't be helped, anyhow."

      "Oh, nonsense, you kid! Almost anybody would be glad to——"

      "Penny, do you think she is very beautiful?" Florinda's voice had a singular quality of awe in it.

      "Well," replied Pennoyer, "I don't know."

      "Yes, you do, Penny. Go ahead and tell me."

      "Well——"

      "Go ahead."

      "Well, she is rather handsome, you know."

      "Yes," said Florinda, dejectedly, "I suppose she is." After a time she cleared her throat and remarked indifferently, "I suppose Billie cares a lot for her?"

      "Oh, I imagine that he does—in a way."

      "Why, of course he does," insisted Florinda. "What do you mean by 'in a way'? You know very well that Billie thinks his eyes of her."

      "No, I don't."

      "Yes, you do. You know you do. You are talking in that way just to brace me up. You know you are."

      "No, I'm not."

      "Penny," said Florinda thankfully, "what makes you so good to me?"

      "Oh, I guess I'm not so astonishingly good to you. Don't be silly."

      "But you are good to me, Penny. You don't make fun of me the way—the way the other boys would. You are just as good as you can be.—But you do think she is beautiful, don't you?"

      "They wouldn't make fun of you," said Pennoyer.

      "But do you think she is beautiful?"

      "Look here, Splutter, let up on that, will you? You keep harping on one string all the time. Don't bother me!"

      "But, honest now, Penny, you do think she is beautiful?"

      "Well, then, confound it—no! no! no!"

      "Oh, yes, you do, Penny. Go ahead now. Don't deny it just because you are talking to me. Own up, now, Penny. You do think she is beautiful?"

      "Well," said Pennoyer, in a dull roar of irritation, "do you?"

      Florinda walked in silence, her eyes upon the yellow flashes which lights sent to the pavement. In the end she said, "Yes."

      "Yes, what?" asked Pennoyer sharply.

      "Yes, she—yes, she is—beautiful."

      "Well, then?" cried Pennoyer, abruptly closing the discussion.

      Florinda announced something as a fact. "Billie thinks his eyes of her."

      "How do you know he does?"

      "Don't scold at me, Penny. You—you——"

      "I'm not scolding at you. There! What a goose you are, Splutter! Don't, for heaven's sake, go to whimpering on the street! I didn't say anything to make you feel that way. Come, pull yourself together."

      "I'm not whimpering."

      "No, of course not; but then you look as if you were on the edge of it. What a little idiot!"

      CHAPTER XXXII.

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      When the snow fell upon the clashing life of the city, the exiled stones, beaten by myriad strange feet, were told of the dark, silent forests where the flakes swept through the hemlocks and swished softly against the boulders.

      In his studio Hawker smoked a pipe, clasping his knee with thoughtful, interlocked fingers. He was gazing sourly at his finished picture. Once he started to his feet with a cry of vexation. Looking back over his shoulder, he swore an insult into the face of the picture. He paced to and fro, smoking belligerently and from time to time eying it. The helpless thing remained upon the easel, facing him.

      Hollanden entered and stopped abruptly at sight of the great scowl. "What's wrong now?" he said.

      Hawker gestured at the picture. "That dunce of a thing. It makes me tired. It isn't worth a hang. Blame it!"

      "What?" Hollanden strode forward and stood before the painting with legs apart, in a properly critical manner. "What? Why, you said it was your best thing."

      "Aw!" said Hawker, waving his arms, "it's no good! I abominate it! I didn't get what I wanted, I tell you. I didn't get what I wanted. That?" he shouted, pointing thrust-way at it—"that? It's vile! Aw! it makes me weary."

      "You're in a nice state," said Hollanden, turning to take a critical view of the painter. "What has got into you now? I swear, you are more kinds of a chump!"

      Hawker crooned dismally: "I

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