New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Short stories, American
Then the third of the group broke in: "Mr. Maguire tried it on me once,
but I gave it to him back, straight from the shoulder. I ain't going to
have him call me down; not much. I know my business, don't I? I don't
need no little snip of a red-headed Irishman to tell me what to do. I
was born here, I was, and I'm not taking any back talk from him, even if
he has a front like the court-house!"
The second girl, whose voice was gentler, then remarked: "Well, I
wouldn't be too hard on Mr. Maguire to-day. I guess he's got troubles of
his own."
"What's that?" cried the first of the three, whose voice was the
sharpest. "Has Sadie Jones thrown him down again?"
"I didn't know a thing about it till this mornin', when I saw the ring
on her other finger," the second saleslady explained, delighted to be
the purveyor of important information. "Mazie says Sadie didn't break it
off again till last night after he'd brought her back from the Lady
Dazzlers' Mask and Civic. And she waited till they got into the trolley
comin' home. An' he'd taken her in to supper, too."
"That's so," the third girl said, "and Mr. Maguire's takin' it terrible.
He came across the street this morning just before me, and he had his
skates on. I was waitin' to see him go in the mud-gutter. Then he saw
the copper on the beat, and he made an awful brace. Gee, but I thought
he was pinched sure!"
"Mr. Smith caught on to him," said the first, with her sharp voice, "and
Willy heard him say he'd be all right again, and he had only the fill of
a pitcher."
"And Sadie's going to keep the ring, too. She says she earned it trying
to keep him straight," the third girl went on. "It's a dead ringer for a
diamond, even if it ain't the real thing. He says it is."
Two customers came up at this juncture, and the group of salesladies had
to dissolve. A series of shrill whistles came in swift succession and a
fire-engine rushed down the avenue, followed by a hook-and-ladder truck;
and the girl with the kindly voice went over toward the door to look at
them, leaving Minnie Henryson again to her own thoughts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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