"
"No, I won't put out the light," shrieked the madam. "You
can't work here. I'm going to telephone Jim Finnegan to come
and get you."
Susan started up angrily, as if she were half-crazed by drink.
"If you do, you old hag," she cried, "I'll tell him you doped
me and set these men on me. I'll tell him about Joe Bishop.
And Jim'll send the whole bunch of you to the pen. I'll not go
back to him till I get good and ready. And that means, I won't
go back at all, no matter what he offers me." She began to cry
in a maudlin way. "I hate him. I'm tired of living as if I
was back in the convent."
The madam stood, heaving to and fro and blowing like a chained
elephant. "I don't know what to do," she whined. "I wish Joe
Bishop was in hell."
"I'm going to get out of here," shrieked Susan, raving and
blazing again and waving her arms. "You don't know a good
thing when you get it. What kind of a bumjoint is this,
anyway? Where's my clothes? They must be dry by this time."
"Yes--yes--they're dry, my dear," whined the madam. "I'll
bring 'em to you."
And out she waddled, returning in a moment with her arms full
of the clothing. She found Susan in the bed and nestling
comfortably into the pillows. "Here are your clothes," she cried.
"No--I want to sleep," was Susan's answer in a cross, drowsy
tone. "I think I'll stay. You won't telephone Jim. But when
he finds me, I'll tell him to go to the devil.
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