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“That dog? That dog's a boy.”
“It's a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here's your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it.”
We drove over to Fifth Avenue, very warm and soft on the summer Sunday afternoon.
“Hold on,” I said, “I have to leave you here.”
“No, you don't,” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't come up to the apartment. Won't you, Myrtle?”
“Come on,” she urged. “I'll telephone my sister Catherine. They say she is very beautiful.”
“Well, I'd like to, but…”
We went on. At 158th Street the cab stopped. Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went in.
The apartment was on the top floor – a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table together with some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey.
I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that afternoon. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at the drug store on the corner.
Then some people came – Myrtle's sister, Catherine, Mr. McKee, a pale feminine man from the flat below, and his wife.
Catherine was a slender girl of about thirty with red hair. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking of innumerable pottery bracelets upon her arms. She came in and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed, repeated my question aloud and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.