The Valley of the Moon | Page 6

seen the light of day on old Irish soil. Their faces showed
content and pride as they limped along with this lusty progeny of theirs
that had fed on better food.
Not with these did Mary and Saxon belong. They knew them not, had
no acquaintances among them. It did not matter whether the festival
were Irish, German, or Slavonian; whether the picnic was the
Bricklayers', the Brewers', or the Butchers'. They, the girls, were of the
dancing crowd that swelled by a certain constant percentage the gate
receipts of all the picnics.
They strolled about among the booths where peanuts were grinding and
popcorn was roasting in preparation for the day, and went on and
inspected the dance floor of the pavilion. Saxon, clinging to an
imaginary partner, essayed a few steps of the dip-waltz. Mary clapped
her hands.
"My!" she cried. "You're just swell! An' them stockin's is peaches."
Saxon smiled with appreciation, pointed out her foot, velvet-slippered
with high Cuban heels, and slightly lifted the tight black skirt, exposing
a trim ankle and delicate swell of calf, the white flesh gleaming through
the thinnest and flimsiest of fifty-cent black silk stockings. She was
slender, not tall, yet the due round lines of womanhood were hers. On
her white shirtwaist was a pleated jabot of cheap lace, caught with a
large novelty pin of imitation coral. Over the shirtwaist was a natty
jacket, elbow-sleeved, and to the elbows she wore gloves of imitation
suede. The one essentially natural touch about her appearance was the
few curls, strangers to curling-irons, that escaped from under the little

naughty hat of black velvet pulled low over the eyes.
Mary's dark eyes flashed with joy at the sight, and with a swift little run
she caught the other girl in her arms and kissed her in a breast-crushing
embrace. She released her, blushing at her own extravagance.
"You look good to me," she cried, in extenuation. "If I was a man I
couldn't keep my hands off you. I'd eat you, I sure would."
They went out of the pavilion hand in hand, and on through the
sunshine they strolled, swinging hands gaily, reacting exuberantly from
the week of deadening toil. They hung over the railing of the bear-pit,
shivering at the huge and lonely denizen, and passed quickly on to ten
minutes of laughter at the monkey cage. Crossing the grounds, they
looked down into the little race track on the bed of a natural
amphitheater where the early afternoon games were to take place. After
that they explored the woods, threaded by countless paths, ever opening
out in new surprises of green-painted rustic tables and benches in leafy
nooks, many of which were already pre-empted by family parties. On a
grassy slope, tree-surrounded, they spread a newspaper and sat down
on the short grass already tawny-dry under the California sun. Half
were they minded to do this because of the grateful indolence after six
days of insistent motion, half in conservation for the hours of dancing
to come.
"Bert Wanhope'll be sure to come," Mary chattered. "An' he said he
was going to bring Billy Roberts--'Big Bill,' all the fellows call him.
He's just a big boy, but he's awfully tough. He's a prizefighter, an' all
the girls run after him. I'm afraid of him. He ain't quick in talkin'. He's
more like that big bear we saw. Brr-rf! Brr-rf!--bite your head off, just
like that. He ain't really a prize-fighter. He's a teamster--belongs to the
union. Drives for Coberly and Morrison. But sometimes he fights in the
clubs. Most of the fellows are scared of him. He's got a bad temper, an'
he'd just as soon hit a fellow as eat, just like that. You won't like him,
but he's a swell dancer. He's heavy, you know, an' he just slides and
glides around. You wanta have a dance with'm anyway. He's a good
spender, too. Never pinches. But my!--he's got one temper."

The talk wandered on, a monologue on Mary's part, that centered
always on Bert Wanhope.
"You and he are pretty thick," Saxon ventured.
"I'd marry'm to-morrow," Mary flashed out impulsively. Then her face
went bleakly forlorn, hard almost in its helpless pathos. "Only, he never
asks me. He's . . ." Her pause was broken by sudden passion. "You
watch out for him, Saxon, if he ever comes foolin' around you. He's no
good. Just the same, I'd marry him to-morrow. He'll never get me any
other way." Her mouth opened, but instead of speaking she drew a long
sigh. "It's a funny world, ain't it?" she added. "More like a scream. And
all the stars are worlds, too. I wonder where God hides. Bert Wanhope
says there ain't no God. But he's just terrible. He says the