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 have a bum hangin' around her to support than be a decent, self-respectin' old maid."

"She loves him, Min," and Billy sighed so lugubriously that Minnie laughed outright. "When you're dead stuck on somebody else, you're just a mush pot. You ain't responsible. I can't make fun o' Elsie because I'm in the same boat as her."

"Aw, go on, Billy, you're soft as butter."

They were in the subway on their way to the Harlem Dance Hall.

"Jimmy says the decorations at the Hall will knock your eye out. And they've got a nigger band there, twelve pieces and seven drums. My feet are just achin' for a good dance, Billy, so you mustn't get sore if I step out a little bit tonight."

"There you go, Min,"—and the dull, hurt look came into Billy's eyes again. "I thought you said I could have most of your dances if I took you there. Now the first thing you pull on me is that I'm not to be a sorehead while you go off dancin' with everybody else."

Minnie felt the color slowly mount to her temples; a hot resentment flared against this boy who wanted to spoil her whole evening by his selfishness. An overwhelming desire to slap his face, before everybody, possessed her. It seemed, as she looked at him, as if she hated him more than anything else in the world, even more than Pete; that she would scream if he spoke to her or put his clumsy, freckled hand upon her. She sat there, erect, transfixed, her eyes watching his hand as it hovered uncertainly over her knee, threatening to descend at any moment in a familiar possessive caress. Then the hand withdrew to meet his other one and they clasped and unclasped until the palms glistened with sweat. They were still moving restlessly when Billy whispered to her: "I'm sorry if I put a damper on your good time, Min. I take it all back.