FITZSIMMONS. Then hit it.
MAUD. [Resolving to attempt it, hits bag several
nice blows, and then is struck on the nose by it.]
Oh!
[Recovering herself and rubbing her nose.] I told
you I was out of practice. You punch the bag,
Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. I will, if you will show me what you
can do with that wonderful soprano voice of yours.
MAUD. I don’t dare. Everybody would
think there was a woman in the club.
FITZSIMMONS. [Shaking his head.] No, they won’t.
They’ve all gone to the fight. There’s
not a soul in the building.
MAUD. [Alarmed, in a weak voice.] Not—a—soul—in—the
building?
FITZSIMMONS. Not a soul. Only you and I.
MAUD. [Starting hurriedly toward door.] Then I must
go.
FITZSIMMONS. What’s your hurry? Sing.
MAUD. [Turning back with new resolve.] Let me see
you punch the bag,—er—Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. You sing first.
MAUD. No; you punch first.
FITZSIMMONS. I don’t believe you are Harry—
MAUD. [Hastily.] All right, I’ll sing.
You sit down over there and turn your back.
[FITZSIMMONS obeys.]
[MAUD walks over to the table toward right.
She is about to sing, when she notices FITZSIMMONS’
cigarette case, picks it up, and in an aside reads
his name on it and speaks.]
MAUD. “Robert Fitzsimmons.”
That will prove to my brother that I have been here.
FITZSIMMONS. Hurry up.
[MAUD hastily puts cigarette case in her pocket and
begins to sing.]
[During the song FITZSIMMONS turns his head slowly
and looks at her with growing admiration.]
MAUD. How did you like it?
FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] Rotten. Anybody could
tell it was a boy’s voice—
MAUD. Oh!
FITZSIMMONS. It is rough and coarse and it cracked
on every high note.
MAUD. Oh! Oh!
[Recollecting herself and shrugging her shoulders.]
Oh, very well. Now let’s see if you can
do any better with the bag.
[FITZSIMMONS takes off coat and gives exhibition.]
[MAUD looks on in an ecstasy of admiration.]
MAUD. [As he finishes.] Beautiful! Beautiful!
[FITZSIMMONS puts on coat and goes over and sits down
near table.] Nothing like the bag to limber one up.
I feel like a fighting cock. Harry, let’s
go out on a toot, you and I.
MAUD. Wh-a-a-t?
FITZSIMMONS. A toot. You know—one
of those rip-snorting nights you used to make.
MAUD. [Emphatically, as she picks up newspapers from
leather chair, sits down, and places them on her lap.]
I’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ve—I’ve
reformed.
FITZSIMMONS. You used to joy-ride like the very devil.
MAUD. I know it.
FITZSIMMONS. And you always had a pretty girl or
two along.
