Kenneth Vaux Reed

“ She had sped away, smock knotted about her waist, hair uncoiffed but safe in the bagging fold of the tam-o'shanter, free-limbed and swift, only a boy running in the shadows.
A street, darker than the rest, presented itself, its narrow opening partly concealed by a projecting porch. Dimly she realized that it led to a less admirable part of the city, but she could not halt. Into it she turned, running on tiptoe so that he might not hear her when he came to the corner behind. ”

“ Officer Corrigan laughed nastily. And, as if bent on choking that ugly sound, out of the darkness of the stairway came a leaping figure. One machine-like blow and Ivy was free. She shrank back into the shadows, watching the blonde boy in action, fascinated. Unconsciously, keeping her eyes on the fray before her, she assured herself that the tam-o'-shanter was securely in position, hiding all her hair. ”

“ I've always felt that if I could just know an artist, talk to one, I could feel so much more confidence in myself and my work."
So serious was he that Ivy felt a little sorry for the deception. But she could not bring herself to confide. "Anything I can do for you,' she whispered, "I'll do gladly. 'Help one another' is almost an axiom among us. ”

“ Sharply to the left she turned, along the road overlooking the city, and came to an abrupt and jarring stop in the embrace of a giant, who resolved into a policeman at a glance. The insecure tam-o'-shanter slipped and dropped to the nape of her neck, revealing its burden of wavy curling locks to the copper's astonished eyes for a brief moment before she swept one arm swiftly upward to replace it and conceal her disordered hair.
"Holy St. Swithings! It's a girl!" whistled Officer Corrigan, and grasped Ivy's two arms just below the shoulders holding her off for inspection. ”

“ Ivy looked sharply at him, then down at the smock and trousers. "Working clothes?" Then, "Of course." Again she regarded him earnestly, puzzled. "But I've never worn these on the street before."
"You're not ashamed of them, though?" he interrogated. A moment he was silent, then sighed deeply. "It's the dream of my life—to be an artist. Please say you're not ashamed of your profession." ”

“ She wavered for an instant. She was thinking of Perreard. But again she turned the way her feet wanted to go, giving a mental snap of her fingers in his direction.
They drew back into the entrance.
"You see, I've never talked to a real artist before," the boy explained. "And I'm madly interested in painting. To nurse a canvas from absolute bleakness to something real, almost breathing, the counterpart of life itself, seems to me—But of course," he broke off shyly, "I am only an amateur. I haven't yet learned to know when I'm inspired and when I'm not. ”

“ She smiled up into his face greatly comforted. "Then you didn't mean me when you said 'we men,' back there? You never thought I was a man?"
He pressed her closer. "Glory, no! You couldn't even fool a policeman."
"But," and she forced herself to say it, "I'm not an artist. I don't know the difference between a palette and a—an easel."
Then he laughed aloud, his seriousness lost. "I knew that, too,—away back there when the taxi stopped under a street lamp and I saw your smock. It's entirely too clean." ”

“ And instinctively she drew farther back into the shadows, seeking a hiding place. She knew that whichever man was victorious she must not be found. But she crouched behind a fence to watch the struggle because she could not bring herself to run away.
The man from whom she had fled was proving himself a match for the burly policeman. After that one blow, delivered with all the force in him, he was in the grip of the bigger man.
"Blow your whistle," he panted as he locked his left arm in Officer Corrigan's right to prevent his reaching for the club behind him. "Make a row. Go on! I dare you!" ”

“ The young man at her side darted forth, and in an instant too brief for reflection or consideration, too brief in fact for anything but a soft laugh over the mischief her feet were doing, she was in the machine. ”

“ They had entered the gloomy building with its unlighted halls and climbed three flights of steps. Along a passage, they groped until the boy paused, and she heard the clink of keys. She wavered for a moment, then, with a smile, stood waiting.
"I've been after Father to put electric lights in this old barn," he explained as he bent to the keyhole. "There's only gas; but I think we can see all right. And please tell me the truth. I can stand it. I'd really rather not be flattered. ”

“ It I were a real artist it might have occurred to me to walk. But I'm tied to a job and a salary, and my father gives me studio and room rent free here. That's why I have to paint afternoons and Sundays and do my drawing by artificial light. You draw in the evening sometimes, don't you? ”

“ And, sitting there on the sill of Perreard's second-story window, she was merry in spite of the seriousness of the business in hand.
"Nothing to it, Harvey." She shook her head without turning to look at the moist, chubby tenor who pleaded at her shoulder. "I can't see you that way."
"Aw, be a good fellow, sweetie," the little fat man begged peevishly, coaxingly. "Just try and look once. You and I hitched up could go out over the big time together and show vaudeville what's what. You've been there and got a rep, I know. That's why Perry just the same as stars you here in his bum cabaret. ”

“ A fall from a second story window is generally more or less painful. Certainly there is rarely any romance in it. But then, the girl in this story wasn't looking for romance, she was trying to avoid it.
VY'S trousered legs swung gayly even while she frowned severely at a fold of her wide white smock which she creased and recreased. ”