She had got some scraps of lace from--Where do
they get those bits of rusty black? From some basement bargain
counter, perhaps, raked over during the lunch hour. There were
nine pieces in the front, and seven in the back. She had sat up
half the night putting them together so that when completed they
looked like one, if you didn't come too close. There is a certain
strain of Indian patience and ingenuity in women that no man has
ever been able to understand.
Louie looked up and saw. His eyes met Sophy's. In his there
crept a certain exultant gleam, as of one who had fought for
something great and won. Sophy saw the look. The shy questioning
in her eyes was replaced by a spark of defiance. She tossed her
head, and turned to the man who had called attention to her
costume.
"Who's loony now?" she jeered. "I always put in a yoke when
it gets along toward fall. My lungs is delicate. And anyway, I
see by the papers yesterday that collarless gowns is slightly
passay f'r winter."
IV
A BUSH LEAGUE HERO
This is not a baseball story. The grandstand does not rise as one
man and shout itself hoarse with joy. There isn't a three-bagger
in the entire three thousand words, and nobody is carried home on
the shoulders of the crowd. For that sort of thing you need not
squander fifteen cents on your favorite magazine.
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