Chapter II
Each bought her own ticket at the entrance to Weasel Park. And
each, as she laid her half-dollar down, was distinctly aware of
how many pieces of fancy starch were represented by the coin. It
was too early for the crowd, but bricklayers and their families, laden with huge lunch-baskets and armfuls of babies, were already going in--a healthy, husky race of workmen, well-paid and robustly fed. And with them, here and there, undisguised by their decent American clothing, smaller in bulk and stature, weazened not alone by age but by the pinch of lean years and early hardship, were grandfathers and mothers who had patently first 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.