The handsome young man who came out in a green suit did a clog dance and sang “’Tis a handful of earth” so feelingly worked daytimes in a near-by chop-house. The two girls with skirts almost to their knees that did the buck and wing dance sold beer in the boxes. The comedians that beat and pummeled each other about the stage starved around between engagements at the local theaters. The strong man, my favorite, turned out to be the bartender upstairs; he also served as bouncer. Julia was ambitious to make more money and every night practiced dancing in hopes that she could some time do a turn at the theater. I served as her audience, sat around till the small hours, and often fell asleep in a chair or on the bed. One night we hurried home ahead of a storm and I was on the bed asleep before she had her supper cooked. She woke me up tugging at me. “Get up, you poor kid; take your clothes off and go to bed if you’re that dead for sleep.” She helped me take off my shoes and I was soon asleep again. She went to bed without waking me, but as I tossed about in the night I knew she was there and was glad. Once my body touched hers—it was hot and sticky. I pulled the sheet down between us and turned away. The next morning as we were walking to the restaurant for breakfast a heavy hand fell on my shoulder; I turned to face my father. My father’s hand was heavy on my shoulder as he pushed me into a doorway. He looked sad and his stern voice shook. “John, do you know what you are? You are a pimp.” Julia never stopped, never looked back, just kept going, which was the right thing. She probably thought I had been taken by the police. No good in her getting arrested, too. Although for years I kept a sharp eye out, I never saw her again; that is, to know her. Of course the gray-haired old lady that sat next me in the car this morning might have been Julia. But anyway, if she is alive and this meets her eye, I want her to know I never doubted for a minute that she stayed away from the life she left behind at Madam Singleton’s. Later, when I went to her room, it was vacant. The man in charge told me a strange, bearded man with a policeman called on her—my father, no doubt—after which she packed up and left without a word. I called at the theater and inquired, but they had forgotten her. CHAPTER VI As we walked to our boarding house I told my father the whole story of my job in the cigar store, my collecting for the milkman, my arrest, and our rescue of Julia. He listened without comment, and when I was done, said: “Well, John, you’ll be what you’ll be, and I cannot help or hinder you. Go back to your job in the morning if you like.” Those were his last words to me. They were kind, and I have always remembered them and their ring of fatality. I never saw him again. I learned later that he lived out his life orderly and died decently. He went away the next day, and when he returned I was far away, westbound in search of adventure.