“How many this week, Miss Mary?” asked the watchmaker. A mountain of coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.
“Nearly thirty dozen,” said the young women cheerfully. “I’ve made almost $4. I’m improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so much money.” Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.
Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.
“Miss Boyne,” he said, “let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do something to aid those who were inconvenienced by that act.”
The smile left the young woman’s face. She rose and pointed her forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.
The two men went down into Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared to be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him warmly.
“I’m obliged to you, Ken, old man,” he said, vaguely—“a thousand times obliged.”
“Mein Gott! you are crazy!” cried the watchmaker, dropping his spectacles for the first time in years.
