"Naughty, naughty!" quoted Billy again, and waggled his forefinger.
"Danger hell fire! Couldn' tell girl's name, Recky--be dishon'able.
Couldn', no, couldn'. Anythin' else--ask m' anythin' else in all these
wide worlds"--and he struck his breast with fervor. "Tell you
_anythin'_, Recky, but couldn' betray trustin' girl's secret."

"Billy, can't you give me an idea what the girl's like?" pleaded Rex
desperately. Billy smiled up at him drowsily. "Perfectly good girl," he
elucidated. "Good eyes, good wind, kind to mother--perfectly good girl
in ev--every r-respect," he concluded, emphasizing his sentences by
articulating them. He dropped his chin into his chest with a recumbent
bow, and his arm described an impressive semicircle. "Present to her
'surances my most disting'shed consider-ration--soon's you find her,"
and he went flop on his side and was asleep.

Rex had to give it up. He heard the gates rattling open for the next
boat-load, and took his stand again, bracing himself for another rebuff.
The usual vanguard, the usual quicksilver bunch of humanity, massing,
separating, flowing this way and that, and in the midst of them a
fair-haired, timid-looking young girl, walking quietly with down-cast
eyes, as if unused to being in big New York alone at eight o'clock at
night. Rex stood in front of her with bared head.

"I beg your pardon," he repeated his formula; "are you looking for Mr.
Strong?"

The startled eyes lifted to his a short second, then dropped again. "No,
for Mr. Week," she answered softly, and unconscious of witticism, melted
into the throng.