ances more than she had allotted him. And she was pleased, as
well as angered, when she chanced to overhear two of the strapping young
cannery girls. "The way that little sawed-off is monopolizin' him," said
one. And the other: "You'd think she might have the good taste to run
after somebody of her own age." "Cradle-snatcher," was the final sting
that sent the angry blood into Saxon's cheeks as the two girls moved
away, unaware that they had been overheard.

Billy saw her home, kissed her at the gate, and got her consent to go
with him to the dance at Germania Hall on Friday night.

"I wasn't thinkin' of goin'," he sald. "But if you'll say the word...
Bert's goin' to be there."

Next day, at the ironing boards, Mary told her that she and Bert were
dated for Germania Hall.

"Are you goin'?" Mary asked.

Saxon nodded.

"Billy Roberts?"

The nod was repeated, and Mary, with suspended iron, gave her a long and
curions look.

"Say, an' what if Charley Long butts in?"

Saxon shrugged her shoulders.

They ironed swiftly and silently for a quarter of an hour.

"Well," Mary decided, "if he does butt in maybe he'll get his. I'd like
to see him get it--the big stiff! It all depends how Billy feels--about
you, I mean."

"I'm no Lily Sanderson," Saxon answered indignantly. "I'll never give
Billy Roberts a chance to turn me down."

"You will, if Charley Long butts in. Take it from me, Saxon, he ain't no
gentleman. Look what he done to Mr. Moody. That was a awful beatin'.
An' Mr. Moody only a quiet little man that wouldn't harm a fly. Well, he
won't find Billy Roberts a sissy by a long shot."

That night, outside the laundry entrance, Saxon found Charley Long
waiting. As he stepped forward to greet her and walk alongside, she felt
the sickening palpitation that he had so thoroughly taught her to
know. The blood ebbed from her face with the apprehension and fear his
appearance caused. She was afraid of the rough bulk of the man; of the
heavy brown eyes, dominant and confident; of the big blacksmith-hands
and the thick strong fingers with the hair-pads on the back to every
first joint. He was unlovely to the eye, and he was unlovely to all her
finer sensibilities. It was not his strength itself, but the quality of
it and the misuse of it, that affronted her. The beating he had given
the gentle Mr. Moody had meant half-hours of horror to her afterward.
Always did the memory of it come to her accompanied by a shudder. An