"That doesn't make sense to me," she said. "I was the one who did it."
"He's in love with you, and this isn't the first time you've done it. He acted like he had learned there was no use matching muscle with you. But you can't expect him to enjoy having another man see you slap his face."
I used to think I knew men," she complained, "but, by God! I don't. They're lunatics, all of them."
"So I poked him to give him back some of his self-respect. You know, treated him as I would a man instead of a down-and-outer who could be slapped around by girls."
"Anything you say," she sighed. "I give it up. We ought to have a drink."
We had the drink, and I said:
"You were saying you'd work with me if there was a cut of the Willsson money in it for you. There is."
"How much?"
"Whatever you earn. Whatever what you do is worth."
"That's uncertain."
So's your help, so far as I know."
"Is it? I can give you the stuff, brother, loads of it, and don't think I can't. I'm a girl who knows her Poisonville." She looked down at her gray-stockinged knees, waved one leg at me, and exclaimed indignantly: "Look at that. Another run. Did you ever see anything to beat it? Honest to God! I'm going barefoot"
