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She had met him at dances and danced with him in the days before she was married. He had always been kind and good natured. She remembered the Friday night, after a City Hall band concert, when he had taken her and two other girls to Tony's Tamale Grotto on Thirteenth street. And after that they had all gone to Pabst's Cafe and drunk a glass of beer before they went home.
They had undertaken the education of the Goat; they set him up to the theater, with supper at the Black Cat or Pabst's afterward, and lay awake nights howling at the recollection of his naïve and shrewd comments; they took him walking to show him the historical landmarks of New York, extemporizing the landmarks and the history as they went along, to the delighted gratitude of the Goat, who lamented that Arizona had no associations.
"Come on, the four of us," Bert went on irrepressibly. "The night's young. Let's make a time of it Pabst's Cafe first, and then some. What you say, Bill? What you say, Saxon? Mary's game." Saxon waited and wondered, half sick with apprehension of this man beside her whom she had known so short a time. "Nope," he said slowly.
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