you'll get no interference in the raising of it, and that't something."
Dot returned to her crying. There wasn't any consolation in the red-haired girl's words. What kind of woman wants to raise her baby without her husband's comments and advice on the matter? What kind of woman can devote her life to two mortals who care nothing about each other? The book of poems which the girl had called an "anthology" floated before Dot's misty vision.
"That kind," Dot answered herself. "That kind."
Eddie came back. He had smoked and had mapped out his campaign. He wouldn't say a thing to Dot about the baby. He'd just stick around till feeding time and get a good look at the kid. Maybe he could tell by looking at it if it was well or not.
He found Dot lying idly on her pillow. She was freshly powdered and rouged, and she had combed her hair again. That was all the poor kid could do to pass the time. He'd go out again and get her a movie magazine. But no, if he did he might miss seeing the baby. He was pleased to observe that the talkative woman had fallen asleep, but the other one had given him a funny look as he passed her bed. What was that for?
"Did you have your smoke?" asked Dot.
"Yes."
"Say, Eddie, while you were waiting last night, did you hear the music coming from the niggers' house?"
"Yeh, wasn't it awful?"
"It nearly drove me nutty. Gee, it's bad enough to be in pain without having to listen to rotten music."
"Was the pain terrible, Dot?"
"Not so terrible, no. It was bad, but it was worth it."
"What do you mean, worth it?"
"Well, I mean to have it over. You know, the waiting and the worry and all."
