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And she thought of Chuck Mory, perched on the high seat of the American Express wagon, hatless, sunburnt, stockily muscular, shouting to his horse as he galloped clattering down Winnebago Street on his way to the depot and the 7:50 train. I suppose there was something about the clear simplicity and uprightness of the firm little figure that appealed to Nap Ballou.
At that she heard herself saying: "I'll get Chuck Mory after you you drunken bum, you! He'll lick you black and blue. He'll ..." The face, with the ugly, broken brown teeth, was coming close again. With all the young strength that was in her she freed one hand and clawed at that face from eyes to chin. A howl of pain rewarded her. His hold loosened. Like a flash she was off. She ran.
Her teeth were set, her eyes sparkled. She tossed her head. "Well, I'm sure, Mr. Mory, it's good enough for me. Too bad you had to come home at all now you're so elegant and swell, and everything. You better go call on Angie Hatton instead of wastin' time on me. She'd probably be tickled to see you." He stumbled to his feet, then, awkwardly.
"Me, I ain't never got the sense to do the traffic cop on the booze. The old woman she says to me, `Mory, she says, `if you was in heaven and there was a pail of beer on one side and a gold harp on the other, she says, `and you was to have your pick, which would you take? And what 'd yuh think I answers her?" "The beer," said the bartender. "She had your number, all right."
Her hair was wild and her blouse awry. "DONNAY-MA-UN-MORSO-DOO-PANG," she articulated painfully. And in that moment, as she put her hand in that of Chuck Mory, across the ocean, her face was very beautiful with contentment. Long Distance Chet Ball was painting a wooden chicken yellow. The wooden chicken was mounted on a six-by-twelve board. The board was mounted on four tiny wheels.
That was the Tessie of six months ago, gay, carefree, holding the reins of her life in her own two capable hands. Three nights a week, and Sunday, she saw Chuck Mory. When she went downtown on Saturday night it was frankly to meet Chuck, who was waiting for her on Schroeder's drugstore corner. He knew it, and she knew it. Yet they always went through a little ceremony.
All he needs is a little dill and a handful of grape leaves to make him good eatin' as a relish." And she thought of Chuck Mory, perched on the high seat of the American Express truck, hatless, sunburned, stockily muscular, clattering down Winnebago Street on his way to the depot and the 7:50 train.
Her teeth were set, her eyes sparkled. She tossed her head. "Well, I'm sure, Mr. Mory, it's good enough for me. Too bad you had to come home at all now you're so elegant and swell, and everything. You better go call on Angie Hatton instead of wasting time on me. She'd probably be tickled to see you." He stumbled to his feet, then, awkwardly.
But he he'd be a different Chuck, while she stayed the same Tessie. And all the while she was smiling and dimpling and trailing her hand in the water. "Bet you can't guess what I got in that lunch box." "Chocolate cake." "Well, of course I've got chocolate cake. I baked it myself this morning." "Yes, you did!" "Why, Chuck Mory, I did so! I guess you think I can't do anything, the way you talk."
But he'd be a different Chuck, while she stayed the same Tessie. And all the while she was smiling and dimpling and trailing her hand in the water. "Bet you can't guess what I got in that lunch box." "Chocolate cake." "Well, of course I've got chocolate cake. I baked it myself this morning." "Yes, you did!" "Why, Chuck Mory, I did so! I guess you think I can't do anything, the way you talk."
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