like him knockin' 'round, an' they ain't to be had for the
askin'. An' you're both lucky. You was just made for each other,
an' you'll make him a better wife than any girl I know. When is
it to be?"

Going home from the laundry a few days later, Saxon encountered
Charley Long. He blocked the sidewalk, and compelled speech with
her.

"So you're runnin' with a prizefighter," he sneered. "A blind man
can see your finish."

For the first time she was unafraid of this big-bodied,
black-browed men with the hairy-matted hands and fingers. She
held up her left hand.

"See that? It's something, with all your strength, that you could
never put on my finger. Billy Roberts put it on inside a week. He
got your number, Charley Long, and at the same time he got me."

"Skiddoo for you," Long retorted. "Twenty-three's your number."

"He's not like you," Saxon went on. "He's a man, every bit of
him, a fine, clean man."

Long laughed hoarsely.

"He's got your goat all right."

"And yours," she flashed back.