She was not pretty. Big, with thin wispy blond hair and slack lips painted a violent red, she leaned over them all, her massive soft bosom pendulous in a blouse of white satin, her hands clasped, her snail-white arms bent, elbows on the sill. The faces — except for Johnnie's — that looked up at her were not friendly. The men were perhaps amused but their eyes were hard and calculating. One woman shouted an insult to her and went into a guffaw. The other women joined in and soon the noise was deafening. The men joked with one another and looked up meaningfully. Only Johnnie, the young man who a moment before had been the center of attention, wasn't smiling. He had a serious, almost hypnotized look on his face, and his glance was still directed at the girl.

But she was no longer looking at him. She was cursing inaudibly at the crowd. And then, when she realized she wasn't heard, she leaned forward over the sill and spat carefully at the woman who had insulted her.

A sudden angry silence came over the crowd.

A large, big-boned man, the husband of the woman who had been spat at, let out an oath and barged his way quickly towards the close which led up to the girl's apartment. The crowd fell aside to make way for him. Johnnie watched his approach without expression. It was not until the man was within a few feet of the close that Johnnie moved. He did so with a sudden snarl, the razor flashing open in his right hand. The man stopped abruptly, a yard away, facing him. A slow hissing sound came from the crowd. Johnnie crouched, the blade ready.

"Fuck off, Beck!" he said. "Take yer bloody mug awa frae here!"

The man hesitated, glowered at the naked blade Johnnie held rigidly at the level of his face. He stood his ground, his face white and his fists clenched at his sides. There was a deadly hush. No one moved. The faces of the spectators were twisted in anticipation.