“Youse have been out hittin’ de can, have youse?” snarled the Cherub. “I’ll teach youse! Do youse think I’ve spent two weeks hangin’ around dis dirty hole of yers, an’ standin’ fer youse being me sick, disabled grandmother wid me supposed to be doin’ me best to keep bread in yer mouth, an’ playin’ poor, an’ having to listen to her tryin’ to get me jobs, an’ handin’ me de soft, goody-goody talk—d’ye think I’m standin’ fer dat just to have youse go out an’ kick de stuffin’ outer de whole lay! I’ll teach youse!”
“It’s a lie!” screamed Shaky Liz. She shook herself suddenly free, and with crooked fingers clawed like a wild cat at the Cherub’s face. “I didn’t crab no game! It’s a lie! I got it all fixed before I went out. I guess I got a right to a drink now, ain’t I?”
The Cherub warded off her attack with a vicious sweep of his fist.
“Yes!” he snarled again. “An’ suppose she’d seen youse! Or suppose she’d come back here by any chance an’ found de poor bedridden grandma gone out fer a drink—eh! Blast youse, couldn’t youse wait a few hours more? De whole outfit ’ud be glad if youse had drunk yerself to death den!”
Shaky Liz dashed the hair out of her eyes, and swept her hands in a half angry, half expostulating gesture toward the others.
“I didn’t queer no game!” she insisted truculently. “I guess I know wot I’m doin’; an’ youse ain’t comin’ in here to pull no rough-house business neither!”
“Aw, let her alone, an’ give her a chance to tell her story,” drawled Gypsy Joe from the table. “We ain’t got all night to stay here.”
“Sure!” said the Cherub softly, and smiled beneficently, as he sat down on the edge of the bed and calmly lighted a cigarette. “Go on, Liz, spill it!”
The old hag stared at him for a moment in silence, as she dug again at her dishevelled locks.
“Youse dirty little runt!” She found her voice at last, and in spite of her scowl there was a grudging note of admiration in her tones. “Youse are pretty slick, ain’t youse?”
“Sure!” admitted the Cherub imperturbably. “If I wasn’t, youse wouldn’t have a hundred dollars in yer kick now, an’ two hundred more comin’ to-morrow—if youse ain’t queered it fer yerself. Go on, give us de dope!”
Shaky Liz preened herself. She adjusted the threadbare bodice of her dress that seemed to bulge and sag uncomfortably, picked up her hat, and smirked at her audience.