The girl’s black brows, which already met across her nose, thickened in the effort to recall him. "You’re no more wiser than you was; are you, little one?" said Archie, and walked away. He had reserved Hunt’s as a last resort, for there, in a saloon which was a meeting place for yeggs, Hunt himself being an old yegg man who had stolen enough to retire on, Archie was sure of a welcome and of a refuge where he could hide from the police for a day, at least, or until he could form some plan for the future. Hunt was not in, but Archie found King’s wife, Bertha Shanteaux, in the back room. She was a woman of thirty-five, very fleshy, and it seemed that she must crush the low lounge on which she sat, her legs far apart, the calico wrapper she wore for comfort stretching between her knees. She was smoking a cigar, and she breathed heavily with asthma, and, when she welcomed Archie, she spoke in a voice so hoarse and of so deep a bass that she might well have been taken for a man in woman’s attire. "Why, Dutch!" she said, taking her cigar from her lips in surprise. "When did you get home?" "Yesterday morning," said Archie. "I landed in with an old con, went up to Dan’s--then I got pinched, and this morning Bostwick gave me the run." "Who made the pinch?" "Quinn and some new gendy." "Suspicion?" "Yes." "Huh," said Bertha, beginning to pull at her cigar again. "Where’s John?" "Oh, he went up town a while ago." "Is Curly here?" "Yes, he’s around. Just got in the other day. What you goin’ to do?" "Oh, I’m waiting to see Curly. I’ve got to get to work and see if I can’t make a dollar or two. I want to frame in with some good tribe." "Well, Curly hasn’t been out for a while. He’ll be glad to see you." "Is Gus with him?" "Oh, no. Gus got settled over in Illinois somewhere--didn’t you hear? The boys say he’s in wrong. But wait! Curly’ll show up after a while." "Well, I’m hipped, and I don’t want to get you in trouble, Mrs. Shanteaux, but if Kouka gets a flash at me, it’s all off." "Oh, you plant here, my boy," she said in a motherly way, "till Curly comes." The tenderloin awoke earlier than usual that day, for it was Saturday, and the farmers were in town. In the morning they would be busy in Market Place, but by afternoon, their work done, their money in their pockets, they would be free, and beginning at the cheap music halls, they, especially the younger ones, would drift gradually down the line, and by night they would be drinking and carousing in the dives.