“Erna! What is the matter with you? Another cup of coffee for Mr. Nolan!”

“I know it. I ordered it an hour ago.”

The stocky, middle-aged, stolid-faced German stared at the handsome sensual girl of twenty, muttered something, as she returned his critical stare with a defiant one, and passed out of the kitchen into the store.

“What is the matter with Erna to-day?” he demanded of his stocky, middle-aged, stolid-faced wife, who stood behind the counter waiting on customers.

“Why?”

“This is the third time she has been schnautzing me.”

“Oh, she has something on her mind,” was the woman’s unconcerned reply.

The storekeeper was not satisfied. “That fellow must be to blame,” he said.

“Who?”

“That Allen! He’s been coming here again.”

“Has he?” the woman returned with the same unconcern. “Let him come. What do you care?” Erna Vitek was in a morose humor. Her pugnacious nose seemed more pugnacious than ever, and even her mouth, usually so soft and yielding, appeared hard this morning. And her brown eyes, which could give you gentle glances one day and repelling ones the next, were filled with ominous signs. There was a good reason. She had just overheard the other waitresses exchanging remarks about her. This would not have been so bad if their talk had been without foundation. But it was true: she had been glad to see Jimmy Allen yesterday noon and evening, when he came in—after an absence of three months. He had stopped drinking. He had been living and training in the country, so that the old color had returned to his face and the old light to his eyes. He looked stronger than ever, more energetic and happier. Yes, he was to begin fighting again—next week—but that had never been his worst fault. The girls said that she still “liked him” or that she would “like him again.” This would not have been so bad if—

Gretchen and Mollie were small, mean, dirty. They were always gossipping about her. And she had given them her old dresses, old hats, encouragement, advice. What a lot of gratitude women felt toward you!

Her face cleared. A laughing, splendidly built young fellow was making his way through the store, returning salutations. He stopped in the kitchen long enough to barter laughing glances with Erna and passed down the two steps into the dining room: a small low one containing six tables—Erna’s empire. There, he received more greetings and one or two short tributes on his return to the public eye. The young athlete pulled off his coat and cap and hung them on the wall. He flung himself into a chair at an empty table and was soon at his ease.

Erna was a shrewd girl. She did not come to take his order at once. First, she served another patron. Then, she cleared away some dishes. Finally, she came to Jimmy’s table, but with a careless air.

He gave her a frank look. “How’s the girl?” was his familiar greeting.

“Pretty fair!” she responded in cool tones. “How are you?”

“Bully!”

“What do you want?” she went on indifferently.

“Gimme time to breathe!” he protested, and tried to stare into her face and to take her hand.

“Stop!” she warned him and drew back.

“Why, what the deuce—”

“Customers are waitin’—” she cut him short.

He gave the bill of fare a contemptuous glance. “Bring me a soft boiled egg, toast an’ a glass o’ milk.”

She looked at him with sudden irritation, but smiled, turned her back and left the room with aggravating slowness.

Jimmy appeared angry, but one of the patrons disturbed his mood with an admiring: “On a diet, Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

“What night does it come off?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“How do you feel?”

Jimmy expanded his chest, gave himself a solid punch and answered: “Great! Harder than a rock!”

“Feel sorry for ‘the Kid.’ How long are you goin’ to let him stay?”

“Oh, part o’ the second,” was Jimmy’s laughing assurance.

A sigh of pleasure and envy escaped the patrons. And they quickly announced their intention to be present at the joyous butchery.

Erna came back. She pretended to wipe off the neighboring table. Pretty soon, however, she was at Jimmy’s side.

“What’s the grouch?” he asked confidentially.

“Nothin’.” “Still sore at me?”

“No.”

“Sore at somebody else?”

“No.”

He looked up at her anxiously, but Erna smiled; her eyes softened and winked slyly. Jimmy, who was always willing to laugh, laughed again. “You’re still the kiddo,” he whispered.

Erna blushed and moved away.

“Erna!” he called.

“Wait a moment!”

She stayed away about two minutes and then returned with Jimmy’s order, which was overdue. Three of the patrons, exchanging “so longs!” with the prize-fighter, went out. Two remained, milkmen, but they were fast asleep.

Erna set Jimmy’s order before him. He tried to catch her hand, but she was too quick. An irritable grunt escaped him.

“What’s the matter?” she taunted him.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothin’.”

But she dropped her glance coquettishly. He gave her face and figure an admiring look.

“Erna,” he said gently.

She looked at him for a shy instant.

“I say, Erna,” he repeated. “Well?”

“You’re not sore?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“You know what I mean?”

“Sure!”

He studied her. “Then why do you treat me this way—now?”

She tried bold and bashful glances, turned her head a little and said enigmatically “Just because.”

“Just because what?”

“Just because.”

He shook his head, but his ever-ready laugh came to his assistance. “Then you’re not sore?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Of course.”

“Even though—”

“Yes.”

“Then you like to treat me this way just—”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“Just because!” she echoed and started to laugh.

He gave her an adoring glance and this time caught her hand. She tried to pull it away, but his grip was too powerful. He squeezed her hand. “Don’t, don’t!” she begged in pain.

He let go and smiled. She was not angry. Instead, she placed her hand on his biceps. He raised his forearm and imprisoned her hand. “Oo-oo!” she sighed in happy homage, and her eyes shone.

Once more, he freed her hand. “Well?”

“Terrible!” she whispered. “What’ll happen to the poor ‘Kid’?”

“Death!” was his jovial rejoinder.

He caught her hand once more. “Don’t, don’t!” she warned him. He let go as before, but she did not withdraw it immediately.

His glance grew bolder and bolder, but he hesitated. He busied himself with his breakfast for a moment, shaking salt into his egg and stirring it with a spoon. He looked up and hesitated again. Finally, he began: “Then it’ll be all right to-night?”

“To-night?”

“Yes. You said you’d tell me to-day.”

“I know.”

“It’ll be all right?” he pleaded.

She eyed him a moment, softened a little and then gave in: “But where can we go?”

“We can take in a show,” he suggested.

“A show?”

“Yes!”

“Where?” “Oh, Miner’s, the Gran’ or a movie.”

She meditated.

“Hurry up! Here come some customers.”

She turned her head quickly, and then looked back at him. “All right,” she whispered.

“Where’ll I meet you?” he demanded eagerly.

“At the old corner—eight o’clock!”

He pressed her hand in hurried understanding, as three young men entered the dining room. They were Breen, Carstairs and Nielsen. Erna passed them on her way out with a nervous “good-morning.”

She stayed out some time. Jimmy ate and drank rapidly, got up, took his check, put on his cap and coat, and ignoring the newcomers, left the room. Breen and Nielsen had recognized him with amazement. They watched him curiously, but not so Carstairs. He sat there, staring gloomily at the table.