is "pawing a guy over";
and the lint ladies he designated as "thread pickers."

No; it can't be classified, this powerful draw he had for them. His
conversation furnished no clue. It was commonplace conversation,
limited, even dull. When astonished, or impressed, or horrified, or
amused, he said: "Ken yuh feature that!" When emphatic or confirmatory,
he said: "You _tell_ 'em!"

It wasn't his car and the opportunities it furnished for drives, both
country and city. That motley piece of mechanism represented such an
assemblage of unrelated parts as could only have been made to cooerdinate
under Nick's expert guidance. It was out of commission more than half
the time, and could never be relied upon to furnish a holiday. Both
Miss Bauers and Miss Ahearn had twelve-cylinder opportunities that
should have rendered them forever unfit for travel in Nick's one-lung
vehicle of locomotion.

It wasn't money. Though he was generous enough with what he had, Nick
couldn't be generous with what he hadn't. And his wage at the garage was
$40 a week. Miss Ahearn's silk stockings cost $4.50.

His unconcern should have infuriated them, but it served to pique. He
wasn't actually as unconcerned as he appeared, but he had early learned
that effort in their direction was unnecessary. Nick had little
imagination; a gorgeous selfishness; a tolerantly contemptuous liking
for the sex. Naturally, however, his attitude toward them had been
somewhat embittered by being obliged to watch their method of driving a
car in and out of the Ideal Garage doorway. His own manipulation of the
wheel was nothing short of wizardry.

He played the harmonica.

Each Thursday afternoon was Nick's half day off. From twelve until
seven-thirty he was free to range the bosky highways of Chicago. When
his car--he called it "the bus"--was agreeable, he went awheel in search
of amusement. The bus being indisposed, he went afoot. He rarely made
plans in advance; usually was accompanied by some successful
telephonee. He rather liked to have a silken skirt beside him fluttering
and flirting in the breeze as he broke the speed regulations.

On this Thursday afternoon in July he had timed his morning job to a
miraculous nicety so that at the stroke of twelve his workaday garments
dropped from him magically, as though he were a male (and reversed)
Cinderella. There was a wash room and a rough sort of sleeping room
containing two cots situated in the second story of the Idea