"
"The house is yours," said O'Callahan. "But there's no peach in it.
It's too soon. I don't suppose you could even find 'em at one of the
Broadway joints. That's too bad. When a lady fixes her mouth for a
certain kind of fruit nothing else won't do. It's too late now to
find any of the first-class fruiterers open. But if you think the
missis would like some nice oranges I've just got a box of fine ones
in that she might--"
"Much obliged, Cal. It's a peach proposition right from the ring of
the gong. I'll try further."
The time was nearly midnight as the Kid walked down the West-Side
avenue. Few stores were open, and such as were practically hooted at
the idea of a peach.
But in her moated flat the bride confidently awaited her Persian
fruit. A champion welter-weight not find a peach?--not stride
triumphantly over the seasons and the zodiac and the almanac to
fetch an Amsden's June or a Georgia cling to his owny-own?
The Kid's eye caught sight of a window that was lighted and gorgeous
with nature's most entrancing colors. The light suddenly went out.
The Kid sprinted and caught the fruiterer locking his door.
"Peaches?" said he, with extreme deliberation.
"Well, no, Sir. Not for three or four weeks yet. I haven't any idea
where you might find some. There may be a few in town from under
the glass, but they'd be hard to locate. Maybe at one of the more
expensive hotels--some place where there's plenty of money to waste.
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