There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked
the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you of
evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a
puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock--see?"
"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frank
features eagerly with anxious eyes.
"On the dead level."
"When are you coming to see me--where I live?"
"Thursday--day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with me
to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don't
you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will,
though."
"On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls to
me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do."
Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.
The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a
policeman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney
jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric
lights and hurried swiftly below.
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