“You’ll see to-night,” said Maggie, flushed with the wine of the first grapes she had gathered in Cupid’s vineyard.  “He’s swell all right.  He’s two inches taller than Jimmy, and an up-to-date dresser.  I’ll introduce him, Anna, just as soon as we get to the hall.”

Anna and Jimmy were among the first Clover Leafs to arrive that evening.  Anna’s eyes were brightly fixed upon the door of the hall to catch the first glimpse of her friend’s “catch.”

At 8:30 Miss Toole swept into the hall with her escort.  Quickly her triumphant eye discovered her chum under the wing of her faithful Jimmy.

“Oh, gee!” cried Anna, “Mag ain’t made a hit—­oh, no!  Swell fellow? well, I guess!  Style?  Look at ’um.”

“Go as far as you like,” said Jimmy, with sandpaper in his voice.  “Cop him out if you want him.  These new guys always win out with the push.  Don’t mind me.  He don’t squeeze all the limes, I guess.  Huh!”

“Shut up, Jimmy.  You know what I mean.  I’m glad for Mag.  First fellow she ever had.  Oh, here they come.”

Across the floor Maggie sailed like a coquettish yacht convoyed by a stately cruiser.  And truly, her companion justified the encomiums of the faithful chum.  He stood two inches taller than the average Give and Take athlete; his dark hair curled; his eyes and his teeth flashed whenever he bestowed his frequent smiles.  The young men of the Clover Leaf Club pinned not their faith to the graces of person as much as they did to its prowess, its achievements in hand-to-hand conflicts, and its preservation from the legal duress that constantly menaced it.  The member of the association who would bind a paper-box maiden to his conquering chariot scorned to employ Beau Brummel airs.  They were not considered honourable methods of warfare.  The swelling biceps, the coat straining at its buttons over the chest, the air of conscious conviction of the supereminence of the male in the cosmogony of creation, even a calm display of bow legs as subduing and enchanting agents in the gentle tourneys of Cupid—­these were the approved arms and ammunition of the Clover Leaf gallants.  They viewed, then, genuflexions and alluring poses of this visitor with their chins at a new angle.

“A friend of mine, Mr. Terry O’Sullivan,” was Maggie’s formula of introduction.  She led him around the room, presenting him to each new-arriving Clover Leaf.  Almost was she pretty now, with the unique luminosity in her eyes that comes to a girl with her first suitor and a kitten with its first mouse.

“Maggie Toole’s got a fellow at last,” was the word that went round among the paper-box girls.  “Pipe Mag’s floor-walker”—­thus the Give and Takes expressed their indifferent contempt.

Usually at the weekly hops Maggie kept a spot on the wall warm with her back.  She felt and showed so much gratitude whenever a self-sacrificing partner invited her to dance that his pleasure was cheapened and diminished.  She had even grown used to noticing Anna joggle the reluctant Jimmy with her elbow as a signal for him to invite her chum to walk over his feet through a two-step.