"Here, now, an' what the hell are ye oop too, me fine buck?" he
questioned roughly, swinging me about into the light. "Give an account
o' yer-self moighty quick, 'er I 'll run ye in."
Startled, recalling the money hidden in my pocket, the last injunction
of Neale, I could think of no excuse, no explanation. The girl, still
staring blankly at me, must have perceived how I instinctively shrank
back, my lips moving in an impotent effort at speech. Some sudden
impulse changed her fright into sympathy. However it was the officer
who impatiently broke the silence, swinging his night stick menacingly:
"Come on now, me lad, hav' ye lost yer voice entoirely? Spake oop
loively--whut ther hell are the two ov' yer oop to, onyhow?"
She started forward, just a step.
"Nothing in the least wrong, officer," her voice trembling slightly,
yet sounding clearly distinct. "He--he was merely accompanying me home
from a dance."
"Whut dance?"
"Over--over there on 43rd Street."
"An' do yer live here?" the gruff tone still vibrant with suspicion.
"Fer if ye do, yer 're sure a new gurl," and he peered at her shadowed
face in the dim light. She drew in her breath sharply.
"No," her voice steadying, now she realized she must carry out the
deception.
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