Minnie smiled, drawing Al's attention to her, while her right foot reached under the table to her mother's shin. "You started to tell me something about my eyes, Al," she said, "when you was interrupted—as usual."
"Gee, honey, your eyes would look like pansies on the screen. They're so big and dark and soft. I tell you, Minnie, for your own good, you're a fool not to try to break into the game. As I said before, why slave at a rotten job for—for"
"Nine dollars a week," Minnie supplied hesitatingly. "That's slavery all right, ain't it?"
"It's, well—" answered Al, "if you'll excuse my French, it's just plain hell."
Nettie's pendulous underlip drooped until her face looked like a grinning mask. She rested her chin in the palms of her hands and stared long and earnestly at Minnie.
"So you're pretty sure that Minnie can make a lot o' dough?" she asked.
Al nodded.
"Think of it! Min makin' fifty dollars a week!"
"Probably a hundred, some day. Fifty may only be a starter."
"God, what luck that kid runs into. What did I tell you, Min, only the other day? Born with a horseshoe in your mouth, that's what I said you was."
"Maybe," Minnie said laconically, as she gave her polished nails a final touch-up by rubbing them on the edge of the table. "You can't tell how far I'll go in the movies once I get started."
"No, you can't," echoed Al, "and what's more I'm not going to leave a stone unturned until I see you on your way."
The following Saturday, Minnie gave notice to the manager
