on her lips and the angry gaze of the sandy-haired boy upon her.
The green of the cape lining caught her attention, and with a gleeful impudence she struck a chord on her ukulele and sang:
She didn't say why, oh, I hope that I die!"
Eddie concentrated his whole attention on a cigarette. He would be damned if she'd drive him away.
Far down the deck a voice suggestive of soiled Lanvin green was once more begging "Bill-ly" not to muss her hair, and the ukulele continued: "Sweetie went away."
Eddie's cigarette described a fiery are on its way to the river. He lit another, and the girl made a funny little clicking noise with her tongue and told her companion in disconcertingly loud tones that she just loved nervous men. The older girl was still watching the river. She was completely unaware of Eddie's existence, and therefore the remark seemed pointless. She did not answer, and apropos of her friend's silence the incorrigible ukulele player turned to Eddie and sang:
You're lonesome, too."
Eddie shrugged his shoulders noticeably and took a step toward the girl. There was a fatalistic acceptance of her advances in his mien. She wanted to know him, and, after all, the atmosphere discouraged solitude.
"What makes you think I'm lonesome?" he asked. His question was not put in a softly inquiring manner, but truculently, after the manner of Harlem swains.
She was practiced. Her determination to establish social relations did not shrivel at his tone. She laughed at him. Her wide red mouth and the eyes that were dark and
