"You mean he buckled right down to brass tacks, and that's what my boy is going to do." "The trouble with this world is it takes money to make money. Get your first few dollars, I always say, no matter how, and then when you're on your feet scratch your conscience if it itches. That's why I said in the beginning, if we had took that hundred and ninety furniture money and staked it on--" "Jimmie, please--please! You wouldn't want to take a girl's savings of years and years to gamble on a sporty cigar proposition with a card-room in the rear. You wouldn't, Jimmie. You ain't that kind of fellow. Tell me you wouldn't, Jimmie." He turned away to dive down into the barrel. "Naw," he said, "I wouldn't." The sun had receded, leaving a sudden sullen gray, the little square room, littered with an upheaval of excelsior, sheet-shrouded furniture, and the paperhanger's paraphernalia and inimitable smells, darkening and seeming to chill. "We got to quit now, Jimmie. It's getting dark and the gas ain't turned on in the meter yet." He rose up out of the barrel, holding out at arm's-length what might have been a tinsmith's version of a porcupine. "What in--What's this thing that scratched me?" She danced to take it. "It's a grater, a darling grater for horseradish and nutmeg and cocoanut. I'm going to fix you a cocoanut cake for our honeymoon supper to-morrow night, honey-bee. Essie Wohlgemuth over in the cake-demonstrating department is going to bring me the recipe. Cocoanut cake! And I'm going to fry us a little steak in this darling little skillet. Ain't it the cutest!" "Cute she calls a tin skillet." "Look what's pasted on it. 'Little Housewife's Skillet. The Kitchen Fairy.' That's what I'm going to be, Jimmie, the kitchen fairy. Give me that. It's a rolling-pin. All my life I've wanted a rolling-pin. Look, honey, a little string to hang it up by. I'm going to hang everything up in rows. It's going to look like Tiffany's kitchen, all shiny. Give me, honey; that's an egg-beater. Look at it whiz. And this--this is a pan for war bread. I'm going to make us war bread to help the soldiers." "You're a little soldier yourself," he said. "That's what I would be if I was a man, a soldier all in brass buttons." "There's a bunch of the fellows going," said Mr. Batch, standing at the window, looking out over roofs, dilly-dallying up and down on his heels and breaking into a low, contemplative whistle. She was at his shoulder, peering over it. "You wouldn't be afraid, would you, Jimmie?" "You bet your life I wouldn't." She was tiptoes now, her arms creeping up to him. "Only my boy's got a wife--a brand-new wifie to support, 'ain't he?" "That's what he has," said Mr. Batch, stroking her forearm, but still gazing through and beyond whatever roofs he was seeing. "Jimmie!" "Huh?" "Look! We got a view of the Hudson River from our flat, just like we lived on Riverside Drive."