However it was the officer who impatiently broke the silence, swinging his night stick menacingly: "Come on now, me lad, hav' ye lost yer voice entoirely?
Spake oop loively--whut ther hell are the two ov' yer oop to, onyhow ?" She started forward, just a step.
"Nothing in the least wrong, officer," her voice trembling slightly, yet sounding clearly distinct.

"He--he was merely accompanying me home from a dance." "Whut dance ?" "Over--over there on 43rd Street." "An' do yer live here ?" the gruff tone still vibrant with suspicion.
"Fer if ye do, yer 're sure a new gurl," and he peered at her shadowed face in the dim light.

She drew in her breath sharply.
"No," her voice steadying, now she realized she must carry out the deception.

"My place is three blocks yet, around the next corner." "Thet 's a prutty thin story, Miss.

Then whut wus the two ov' yer doin' in here ?" She clutched the brick coping with one hand, never glancing toward me, her eyes fixed imploringly on the glistening face of the questioning policeman.