Part 27 (2/2)
She told about the whirlwind, and Lucy smiled thinly, and indicated the chair.
Jo climbed into it, and was bundled with clean, perfumed towels that caused her to grow reminiscent of school days and dainty dresses and all the things that as Jerkline Jo she had been obliged to put aside.
”Do you know,” she said as Lucy began her delicate ministrations, ”I've never before in my life been in a beauty parlor.”
”You are one of the few women who do not need one,” said Lucy, forced to a sincere compliment by the undeniable, fresh beauty of her patron.
”Oh, thank you!” said Jo with a laugh. ”It's not just that, though. I expect, if the truth were told, I've needed the services of a beauty artist for years. But I was raised in a construction camp, you know, until I was pretty much of a young lady, and such things were entirely out of my ken. Then at Palada, where my foster father eventually settled and went into the freighting business and running a store, we were not so progressive as Ragtown even. So when I went to boarding school in the Middle West I was virtually immune from many of the new fads. You, then, are the first person that ever washed my hair--except myself, of course. I remember even that my dear old foster mother always made me wash it when I was a kid--once a year perhaps,” she ended with a laugh. ”Poor ma! She had little enough time to fuss with a child's hair, cooking for big, hungry men all the time as she was, and driving a slip team while she was resting.”
Jo was merely trying to make conversation, for she could think of little to say that she thought might touch a responsive cord in the fluffy girl from the city. Jerkline Jo was a man's woman. She could talk about almost anything that other women could not bring into their conversation.
”You've had an interesting life, haven't you?” observed Lucy, manipulating Jo's scalp till the skin tingled pleasantly. ”I wish I could have met you when I was writing moving-picture scenarios. What a character you would have made for the heroine of a Western thriller!”
”Oh, you've written scenarios! How interesting! And--and--if this isn't trespa.s.sing on delicate ground--sold them?”
Lucy t.i.ttered. ”Yes, I sold some of them,” she replied.
This gave them a basis for conversation, and they progressed famously until the grinning face of a railroad-construction stiff appeared suddenly at the door.
”Hey!” he called to other stiffs behind him. ”Look wot's goin' on!”
”h.e.l.lo, there, 'Squinty' Malley!” and Jo laughed. ”Get your face out of that door. This is sacred ground, you roughneck!”
”Look at Jo!” derided Squinty, an old friend of the girl's in many a half-remembered camp. ”Hey, youse plugs, gadder 'round here and lamp Jerkline Jo dollin' up! Good night!”
”Beat it now!” Jo reiterated.
”Say, dis here's good!” retorted Squinty. ”I to't youse was a reg'lar woman, Jo! Youse know more 'bout cuffin' ole Jack an' Ned dan youse do 'bout fixin' yer hair. Say, lady,” he addressed Lucy, ”fix 'er up--hey? Doll 'er up proper, an' le's see wot de ol'-timer looks like.”
”You'll oblige me by getting out of the door,” said Lucy indignantly.
”Oh, don't scold the poor eel!” pleaded Jerkline Jo. ”He doesn't know any better. So you want to see me dolled up, do you, Squint? By George, you're on, old-timer! I've got some glad rags here in this burg. Go on now! I'll be the queen of the ball to-night!”
”Lucy,” Jo laughed familiarly when the tramps had vanished, ”fix up my hair the best you possibly can. Give me the latest, will you? I'm going to have some fun to-night.”
An hour later, when darkness had settled over Ragtown and the night's revel was on, there entered the Palace Dance Hall a figure that brought gamblers from their absorbing games, stopped the dizzying whirl of the dancers, and caused gla.s.ses that were halfway to eager lips to pause in mid-air.
Jerkline Jo's almost black hair was piled on top of her head in bewildering fas.h.i.+on, and set off with flas.h.i.+ng rhinestone ornaments, furnished by Lucy Dalles. Jo wore a semievening dress of pale-blue silk, and Lucy had powdered her face and neck until little contrast could be noted between skin that had braved the desert winds and that which had been protected. Jo wore fas.h.i.+onable slippers with great sh.e.l.l buckles and high French heels. She cast a dazzling smile over the silent a.s.semblage, then threw back her glorious head and let her laughter ring.
That laugh revealed her ident.i.ty.
”Jerkline Jo!” came a chorus of yells, and men stared at her, while women drew together in groups, their comments expressed in lowered voices.
As they crowded around her Lucy Dalles peered in at the door, a contemptuous sneer on her lips.
”Have a good time, old girl!” she muttered, grinding her little white teeth. ”But I learned something to-day that'll set _you_ back a step or two. Get me to doll you up, will you, you impossible roughneck?
You'll pay for that!”
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