Chapter 14 Mr. Abrahams Re-Engages An Old Employee

    The only real happiness, we are told, is to be obtained by bringinghappiness to others. Bugs Butler's mood, accordingly, when some thirtyhours after the painful episode recorded in the last chapter he awokefrom a state of coma in the ring at Jersey City to discover that Mr. LewLucas had knocked him out in the middle of the third round, should havebeen one of quiet contentment. His inability to block a short left-hookfollowed by a right to the point of the jaw had ameliorated quite anumber of existences.

　　Mr. Lew Lucas, for one, was noticeably pleased. So were Mr. Lucas'sseconds, one of whom went so far as to kiss him. And most of the crowd,who had betted heavily on the champion, were delighted. Yet Bugs Butlerdid not rejoice. It is not too much to say that his peevish bearingstruck a jarring note in the general gaiety. A heavy frown disfiguredhis face as he slouched from the ring.

　　But the happiness which he had spread went on spreading. The two WiseGuys, who had been unable to attend the fight in person, received theresult on the ticker and exuberantly proclaimed themselves the richer byfive hundred dollars. The pimpled office-boy at the Fillmore NicholasTheatrical Enterprises Ltd. caused remark in the Subway by whoopinggleefully when he read the news in his morning paper, for he, too, hadbeen rendered wealthier by the brittleness of Mr. Butler's chin. And itwas with fierce satisfaction that Sally, breakfasting in her littleapartment, informed herself through the sporting page of the details ofthe contender's downfall. She was not a girl who disliked many people,but she had acquired a lively distaste for Bugs Butler.

　　Lew Lucas seemed a man after her own heart. If he had been a personalfriend of Ginger's he could not, considering the brief time at hisdisposal, have avenged him with more thoroughness. In round one he haddone all sorts of diverting things to Mr. Butler's left eye: in roundtwo he had continued the good work on that gentleman's body; and inround three he had knocked him out. Could anyone have done more? Sallythought not, and she drank Lew Lucas's health in a cup of coffee andhoped his old mother was proud of him.

　　The telephone bell rang at her elbow. She unhooked the receiver.

　　"Hullo?""Oh, hullo," said a voice.

　　"Ginger!" cried Sally delightedly.

　　"I say, I'm awfully glad you're back. I only got your letter thismorning. Found it at the boarding-house. I happened to look in thereand...""Ginger," interrupted Sally, "your voice is music, but I want to seeyou. Where are you?""I'm at a chemist's shop across the street. I was wondering if...""Come here at once!""I say, may I? I was just going to ask.""You miserable creature, why haven't you been round to see me before?""Well, as a matter of fact, I haven't been going about much for the lastday. You see...""I know. Of course." Quick sympathy came into Sally's voice. She gavea sidelong glance of approval and gratitude at the large picture of LewLucas which beamed up at her from the morning paper. "You poor thing!

　　How are you?""Oh, all right, thanks.""Well, hurry."There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.

　　"I say.""Well?""I'm not much to look at, you know.""You never were. Stop talking and hurry over.""I mean to say..."Sally hung up the receiver firmly. She waited eagerly for some minutes,and then footsteps came along the passage. They stopped at her door andthe bell rang. Sally ran to the door, flung it open, and recoiled inconsternation.

　　"Oh, Ginger!"He had stated the facts accurately when he had said that he was not muchto look at. He gazed at her devotedly out of an unblemished right eye,but the other was hidden altogether by a puffy swelling of dull purple.

　　A great bruise marred his left cheek-bone, and he spoke with somedifficulty through swollen lips.

　　"It's all right, you know," he assured her.

　　"It isn't. It's awful! Oh, you poor darling!" She clenched her teethviciously. "I wish he had killed him!""Eh?""I wish Lew Lucas or whatever his name is had murdered him. Brute!""Oh, I don't know, you know." Ginger's sense of fairness compelled himto defend his late employer against these harsh sentiments. "He isn't abad sort of chap, really. Bugs Butler, I mean.""Do you seriously mean to stand there and tell me you don't loathe thecreature?""Oh, he's all right. See his point of view and all that. Can't blamehim, if you come to think of it, for getting the wind up a bit in thecircs. Bit thick, I mean to say, a sparring-partner going at him likethat. Naturally he didn't think it much of a wheeze. It was my faultright along. Oughtn't to have done it, of course, but somehow, when hestarted making an ass of me and I knew you were looking on... well, itseemed a good idea to have a dash at doing something on my own. No rightto, of course. A sparring-partner isn't supposed...""Sit down," said Sally.

　　Ginger sat down.

　　"Ginger," said Sally, "you're too good to live.""Oh, I say!""I believe if someone sandbagged you and stole your watch and chainyou'd say there were faults on both sides or something. I'm just a cat,and I say I wish your beast of a Bugs Butler had perished miserably. I'dhave gone and danced on his grave... But whatever made you go in forthat sort of thing?""Well, it seemed the only job that was going at the moment. I've alwaysdone a goodish bit of boxing and I was very fit and so on, and it lookedto me rather an opening. Gave me something to get along with. You getpaid quite fairly decently, you know, and it's rather a jolly life...""Jolly? Being hammered about like that?""Oh, you don't notice it much. I've always enjoyed scrapping rather.

　　And, you see, when your brother gave me the push..."Sally uttered an exclamation.

　　"What an extraordinary thing it is--I went all the way out to WhitePlains that afternoon to find Fillmore and tackle him about that and Ididn't say a word about it. And I haven't seen or been able to get holdof him since.""No? Busy sort of cove, your brother.""Why did Fillmore let you go?""Let me go? Oh, you mean... well, there was a sort of mix-up. A kind ofmisunderstanding.""What happened?""Oh, it was nothing. Just a...""What happened?"Ginger's disfigured countenance betrayed embarrassment. He lookedawkwardly about the room.

　　"It's not worth talking about.""It is worth talking about. I've a right to know. It was I who sentyou to Fillmore...""Now that," said Ginger, "was jolly decent of you.""Don't interrupt! I sent you to Fillmore, and he had no business to letyou go without saying a word to me. What happened?"Ginger twiddled his fingers unhappily.

　　"Well, it was rather unfortunate. You see, his wife--I don't know ifyou know her?...""Of course I know her.""Why, yes, you would, wouldn't you? Your brother's wife, I mean," saidGinger acutely. "Though, as a matter of fact, you often findsisters-in-law who won't have anything to do with one another. I know afellow...""Ginger," said Sally, "it's no good your thinking you can get out oftelling me by rambling off on other subjects. I'm grim and resolute andrelentless, and I mean to get this story out of you if I have to use acorkscrew. Fillmore's wife, you were saying..."Ginger came back reluctantly to the main theme.

　　"Well, she came into the office one morning, and we started foolingabout...""Fooling about?""Well, kind of chivvying each other.""Chivvying?""At least I was.""You were what?""Sort of chasing her a bit, you know."Sally regarded this apostle of frivolity with amazement.

　　"What do you mean?"Ginger's embarrassment increased.

　　"The thing was, you see, she happened to trickle in rather quietly whenI happened to be looking at something, and I didn't know she was theretill she suddenly grabbed it...""Grabbed what?""The thing. The thing I happened to be looking at. She bagged it...

　　collared it... took it away from me, you know, and wouldn't give it backand generally started to rot about a bit, so I rather began to chivvyher to some extent, and I'd just caught her when your brother happenedto roll in. I suppose," said Ginger, putting two and two together, "hehad really come with her to the office and had happened to hang back fora minute or two, to talk to somebody or something... well, of course,he was considerably fed to see me apparently doing jiu-jitsu with hiswife. Enough to rattle any man, if you come to think of it," saidGinger, ever fair-minded. "Well, he didn't say anything at the time, buta bit later in the day he called me in and administered the push."Sally shook her head.

　　"It sounds the craziest story to me. What was it that Mrs. Fillmoretook from you?""Oh, just something."Sally rapped the table imperiously.

　　"Ginger!""Well, as a matter of fact," said her goaded visitor, "It was aphotograph.""Who of? Or, if you're particular, of whom?""Well... you, to be absolutely accurate.""Me?" Sally stared. "But I've never given you a photograph of myself."Ginger's face was a study in scarlet and purple.

　　"You didn't exactly give it to me," he mumbled. "When I say give, Imean...""Good gracious!" Sudden enlightenment came upon Sally. "That photographwe were hunting for when I first came here! Had you stolen it all thetime?""Why, yes, I did sort of pinch it...""You fraud! You humbug! And you pretended to help me look for it." Shegazed at him almost with respect. "I never knew you were so deep andsnaky. I'm discovering all sorts of new things about you."There was a brief silence. Ginger, confession over, seemed a triflehappier.

　　"I hope you're not frightfully sick about it?" he said at length. "Itwas lying about, you know, and I rather felt I must have it. Hadn't thecheek to ask you for it, so...""Don't apologize," said Sally cordially. "Great compliment. So I havecaused your downfall again, have I? I'm certainly your evil genius,Ginger. I'm beginning to feel like a regular rag and a bone and a hankof hair. First I egged you on to insult your family--oh, by the way, Iwant to thank you about that. Now that I've met your Uncle Donald I cansee how public-spirited you were. I ruined your prospects there, and nowmy fatal beauty--cabinet size--has led to your destruction once more.

　　It's certainly up to me to find you another job, I can see that.""No, really, I say, you mustn't bother. I shall be all right.""It's my duty. Now what is there that you really can do? Burglary, ofcourse, but it's not respectable. You've tried being a waiter and aprize-fighter and a right-hand man, and none of those seems to be justright. Can't you suggest anything?"Ginger shook his head.

　　"I shall wangle something, I expect." '

　　"Yes, but what? It must be something good this time. I don't want to bewalking along Broadway and come on you suddenly as a street-cleaner. Idon't want to send for an express-man and find you popping up. My ideawould be to go to my bank to arrange an overdraft and be told thepresident could give me two minutes and crawl in humbly and find youprezzing away to beat the band in a big chair. Isn't there anything inthe world that you can do that's solid and substantial and will keep youout of the poor-house in your old age? Think!""Of course, if I had a bit of capital...""Ah! The business man! And what," inquired Sally, "would you do, Mr.

　　Morgan, if you had a bit of capital?""Run a dog-thingummy," said Ginger promptly.

　　"What's a dog-thingummy?""Why, a thingamajig. For dogs, you know."Sally nodded.

　　"Oh, a thingamajig for dogs? Now I understand. You will put things soobscurely at first. Ginger, you poor fish, what are you raving about?

　　What on earth is a thingamajig for dogs?""I mean a sort of place like fellows have. Breeding dogs, you know, andselling them and winning prizes and all that. There are lots of themabout.""Oh, a kennels?""Yes, a kennels.""What a weird mind you have, Ginger. You couldn't say kennels at first,could you? That wouldn't have made it difficult enough. I suppose, ifanyone asked you where you had your lunch, you would say, 'Oh, at athingamajig for mutton chops'... Ginger, my lad, there is something inthis. I believe for the first time in our acquaintance you have spokensomething very nearly resembling a mouthful. You're wonderful with dogs,aren't you?""I'm dashed keen on them, and I've studied them a bit. As a matter offact, though it seems rather like swanking, there isn't much about dogsthat I don't know.""Of course. I believe you're a sort of honorary dog yourself. I couldtell it by the way you stopped that fight at Roville. You plunged into ahowling mass of about a million hounds of all species and just whisperedin their ears and they stopped at once. Why, the more one examines this,the better it looks. I do believe it's the one thing you couldn't helpmaking a success of. It's very paying, isn't it?""Works out at about a hundred per cent on the original outlay, I've beentold.""A hundred per cent? That sounds too much like something of Fillmore'sfor comfort. Let's say ninety-nine and be conservative. Ginger, you havehit it. Say no more. You shall be the Dog King, the biggestthingamajigger for dogs in the country. But how do you start?""Well, as a matter of fact, while I was up at White Plains, I ran into acove who had a place of the sort and wanted to sell out. That was whatmade me think of it.""You must start to-day. Or early to-morrow.""Yes," said Ginger doubtfully. "Of course, there's the catch, youknow.""What catch?""The capital. You've got to have that. This fellow wouldn't sell outunder five thousand dollars.""I'll lend you five thousand dollars.""No!" said Ginger.

　　Sally looked at him with exasperation. "Ginger, I'd like to slap you,"she said. It was maddening, this intrusion of sentiment into businessaffairs. Why, simply because he was a man and she was a woman, shouldshe be restrained from investing money in a sound commercialundertaking? If Columbus had taken up this bone-headed stand towardsQueen Isabella, America would never have been discovered.

　　"I can't take five thousand dollars off you," said Ginger firmly.

　　"Who's talking of taking it off me, as you call it?" stormed Sally.

　　"Can't you forget your burglarious career for a second? This isn't thesame thing as going about stealing defenceless girls' photographs. Thisis business. I think you would make an enormous success of a dog-place,and you admit you're good, so why make frivolous objections? Whyshouldn't I put money into a good thing? Don't you want me to get rich,or what is it?"Ginger was becoming confused. Argument had never been his strong point.

　　"But it's such a lot of money.""To you, perhaps. Not to me. I'm a plutocrat. Five thousand dollars!

　　What's five thousand dollars? I feed it to the birds."Ginger pondered woodenly for a while. His was a literal mind, and heknew nothing of Sally's finances beyond the fact that when he had firstmet her she had come into a legacy of some kind. Moreover, he had beenhugely impressed by Fillmore's magnificence. It seemed plain enoughthat the Nicholases were a wealthy family.

　　"I don't like it, you know," he said.

　　"You don't have to like it," said Sally. "You just do it."A consoling thought flashed upon Ginger.

　　"You'd have to let me pay you interest.""Let you? My lad, you'll have to pay me interest. What do you thinkthis is--a round game? It's a cold business deal.""Topping!" said Ginger relieved. "How about twenty-five per cent.""Don't be silly," said Sally quickly. "I want three.""No, that's all rot," protested Ginger. "I mean to say--three. Idon't," he went on, making a concession, "mind saying twenty.""If you insist, I'll make it five. Not more.""Well, ten, then?""Five!""Suppose," said Ginger insinuatingly, "I said seven?""I never saw anyone like you for haggling," said Sally with disapproval.

　　"Listen! Six. And that's my last word.""Six?""Six."Ginger did sums in his head.

　　"But that would only work out at three hundred dollars a year. It isn'tenough.""What do you know about it? As if I hadn't been handling this sort ofdeal in my life. Six! Do you agree?""I suppose so.""Then that's settled. Is this man you talk about in New York?""No, he's down on Long Island at a place on the south shore.""I mean, can you get him on the 'phone and clinch the thing?""Oh, yes. I know his address, and I suppose his number's in the book.""Then go off at once and settle with him before somebody else snaps himup. Don't waste a minute."Ginger paused at the door.

　　"I say, you're absolutely sure about this?'''

　　"Of course.""I mean to say...""Get on," said Sally.

　　The window of Sally's sitting-room looked out on to a street which,while not one of the city's important arteries, was capable,nevertheless, of affording a certain amount of entertainment to theobserver: and after Ginger had left, she carried the morning paper tothe window-sill and proceeded to divide her attention between a thirdreading of the fight-report and a lazy survey of the outer world. It wasa beautiful day, and the outer world was looking its best.

　　She had not been at her post for many minutes when a taxi-cab stopped atthe apartment-house, and she was surprised and interested to see herbrother Fillmore heave himself out of the interior. He paid the driver,and the cab moved off, leaving him on the sidewalk casting a largeshadow in the sunshine. Sally was on the point of calling to him, whenhis behaviour became so odd that astonishment checked her.

　　From where she sat Fillmore had all the appearance of a man practisingthe steps of a new dance, and sheer curiosity as to what he would donext kept Sally watching in silence. First, he moved in a resolute sortof way towards the front door; then, suddenly stopping, scuttled back.

　　This movement he repeated twice, after which he stood in deep thoughtbefore making another dash for the door, which, like the others, came toan abrupt end as though he had run into some invisible obstacle. And,finally, wheeling sharply, he bustled off down the street and was lostto view.

　　Sally could make nothing of it. If Fillmore had taken the trouble tocome in a taxi-cab, obviously to call upon her, why had he abandoned theidea at her very threshold? She was still speculating on this mysterywhen the telephone-bell rang, and her brother's voice spoke huskily inher ear.

　　"Sally?""Hullo, Fill. What are you going to call it?""What am I... Call what?""The dance you were doing outside here just now. It's your owninvention, isn't it?""Did you see me?" said Fillmore, upset.

　　"Of course I saw you. I was fascinated.""I--er--I was coming to have a talk with you. Sally..."Fillmore's voice trailed off.

　　"Well, why didn't you?"There was a pause--on Fillmore's part, if the timbre of at his voicecorrectly indicated his feelings, a pause of discomfort. Something wasplainly vexing Fillmore's great mind.

　　"Sally," he said at last, and coughed hollowly into the receiver.

　　"Yes.""I--that is to say, I have asked Gladys... Gladys will be coming to seeyou very shortly. Will you be in?""I'll stay in. How is Gladys? I'm longing to see her again.""She is very well. A trifle--a little upset.""Upset? What about?""She will tell you when she arrives. I have just been 'phoning to her.

　　She is coming at once." There was another pause. "I'm afraid she has badnews.""What news?"There was silence at the other end of the wire.

　　"What news?" repeated Sally, a little sharply. She hated mysteries.

　　But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully.

　　She was puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gainedby worrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen andtried to divert herself by washing up. Presently a ring at the door-bellbrought her out, to find her sister-in-law.

　　Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position ofpartnership with the Hope of the American Stage, had effected nonoticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore she wasthe same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscularmanner and went on in the sitting-room.

　　"Well, it's great seeing you again," she said. "I began to think youwere never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to Englandlike that?"Sally had been expecting the question, and answered it with composure.

　　"I wanted to help Mr. Faucitt.""Who's Mr. Faucitt?""Hasn't Fillmore ever mentioned him? He was a dear old man at theboarding-house, and his brother died and left him a dressmakingestablishment in London. He screamed to me to come and tell him what todo about it. He has sold it now and is quite happy in the country.""Well, the trip's done you good," said Mrs. Fillmore. "You're prettierthan ever."There was a pause. Already, in these trivial opening exchanges, Sallyhad sensed a suggestion of unwonted gravity in her companion. She missedthat careless whimsicality which had been the chief characteristic ofMiss Gladys Winch and seemed to have been cast off by Mrs. FillmoreNicholas. At their meeting, before she had spoken, Sally had not noticedthis, but now it was apparent that something was weighing on hercompanion. Mrs. Fillmore's honest eyes were troubled.

　　"What's the bad news?" asked Sally abruptly. She wanted to end thesuspense. "Fillmore was telling me over the 'phone that you had some badnews for me."Mrs. Fillmore scratched at the carpet for a moment with the end of herparasol without replying. When she spoke it was not in answer to thequestion.

　　"Sally, who's this man Carmyle over in England?""Oh, did Fillmore tell you about him?""He told me there was a rich fellow over in England who was crazy aboutyou and had asked you to marry him, and that you had turned him down."Sally's momentary annoyance faded. She could hardly, she felt, haveexpected Fillmore to refrain from mentioning the matter to his wife.

　　"Yes," she said. "That's true.""You couldn't write and say you've changed your mind?"Sally's annoyance returned. All her life she had been intenselyindependent, resentful of interference with her private concerns.

　　"I suppose I could if I had--but I haven't. Did Fillmore tell you totry to talk me round?""Oh, I'm not trying to talk you round," said Mrs. Fillmore quickly.

　　"Goodness knows, I'm the last person to try and jolly anyone intomarrying anybody if they didn't feel like it. I've seen too manymarriages go wrong to do that. Look at Elsa Doland."Sally's heart jumped as if an exposed nerve had been touched.

　　"Elsa?" she stammered, and hated herself because her voice shook.

　　"Has--has her marriage gone wrong?""Gone all to bits," said Mrs. Fillmore shortly. "You remember shemarried Gerald Foster, the man who wrote 'The Primrose Way'?"Sally with an effort repressed an hysterical laugh.

　　"Yes, I remember," she said.

　　"Well, it's all gone bloo-ey. I'll tell you about that in a minute.

　　Coming back to this man in England, if you're in any doubt about it... Imean, you can't always tell right away whether you're fond of a man ornot... When first I met Fillmore, I couldn't see him with a spy-glass,and now he's just the whole shooting-match... But that's not what Iwanted to talk about. I was saying one doesn't always know one's ownmind at first, and if this fellow really is a good fellow... andFillmore tells me he's got all the money in the world..."Sally stopped her.

　　"No, it's no good. I don't want to marry Mr. Carmyle.""That's that, then," said Mrs. Fillmore. "It's a pity, though.""Why are you taking it so much to heart?" said Sally with a nervouslaugh.

　　"Well..." Mrs. Fillmore paused. Sally's anxiety was growing. It must,she realized, be something very serious indeed that had happened if ithad the power to make her forthright sister-in-law disjointed in hertalk. "You see..." went on Mrs. Fillmore, and stopped again. "Gee! I'mhating this!" she murmured.

　　"What is it? I don't understand.""You'll find it's all too darned clear by the time I'm through," saidMrs. Fillmore mournfully. "If I'm going to explain this thing, I guessI'd best start at the beginning. You remember that revue ofFillmore's--the one we both begged him not to put on. It flopped!""Oh!""Yes. It flopped on the road and died there. Never got to New York atall. Ike Schumann wouldn't let Fillmore have a theatre. The book wantedfixing and the numbers wanted fixing and the scenery wasn't right: andwhile they were tinkering with all that there was trouble about the castand the Actors Equity closed the show. Best thing that could havehappened, really, and I was glad at the time, because going on with itwould only have meant wasting more money, and it had cost a fortunealready. After that Fillmore put on a play of Gerald Foster's and thatwas a frost, too. It ran a week at the Booth. I hear the new piece he'sgot in rehearsal now is no good either. It's called 'The Wild Rose,' orsomething. But Fillmore's got nothing to do with that.""But..." Sally tried to speak, but Mrs. Fillmore went on.

　　"Don't talk just yet, or I shall never get this thing straight. Well,you know Fillmore, poor darling. Anyone else would have pulled in hishorns and gone slow for a spell, but he's one of those fellows whosehorse is always going to win the next race. The big killing is alwaysjust round the corner with him. Funny how you can see what a chump a manis and yet love him to death... I remember saying something like that toyou before... He thought he could get it all back by staging this fightof his that came off in Jersey City last night. And if everything hadgone right he might have got afloat again. But it seems as if he can'ttouch anything without it turning to mud. On the very day before thefight was to come off, the poor mutt who was going against the championgoes and lets a sparring-partner of his own knock him down and foolaround with him. With all the newspaper men there too! You probably sawabout it in the papers. It made a great story for them. Well, thatkilled the whole thing. The public had never been any too sure that thisfellow Bugs Butler had a chance of putting up a scrap with the championthat would be worth paying to see; and, when they read that he couldn'teven stop his sparring-partners slamming him all around the place theysimply decided to stay away. Poor old Fill! It was a finisher for him.

　　The house wasn't a quarter full, and after he'd paid these twopluguglies their guarantees, which they insisted on having before they'dso much as go into the ring, he was just about cleaned out. So there youare!"Sally had listened with dismay to this catalogue of misfortunes.

　　"Oh, poor Fill!" she cried. "How dreadful!""Pretty tough.""But 'The Primrose Way' is a big success, isn't it?" said Sally, anxiousto discover something of brightness in the situation.

　　"It was." Mrs. Fillmore flushed again. "This is the part I hate havingto tell you.""It was? Do you mean it isn't still? I thought Elsa had made such atremendous hit. I read about it when I was over in London. It was evenin one of the English papers.""Yes, she made a hit all right," said Mrs. Fillmore drily. "She madesuch a hit that all the other managements in New York were after herright away, and Fillmore had hardly sailed when she handed in her noticeand signed up with Goble and Cohn for a new piece they are starring herin.""Ah, she couldn't!" cried Sally.

　　"My dear, she did! She's out on the road with it now. I had to breakthe news to poor old Fillmore at the dock when he landed. It was rathera blow. I must say it wasn't what I would call playing the game. I knowthere isn't supposed to be any sentiment in business, but after all wehad given Elsa her big chance. But Fillmore wouldn't put her name upover the theatre in electrics, and Goble and Cohn made it a clause inher contract that they would, so nothing else mattered. People are likethat.""But Elsa... She used not to be like that.""They all get that way. They must grab success if it's to be grabbed.

　　I suppose you can't blame them. You might just as well expect a cat tokeep off catnip. Still, she might have waited to the end of the New Yorkrun." Mrs. Fillmore put out her hand and touched Sally's. "Well, I'vegot it out now," she said, "and, believe me, it was one rotten job. Youdon't know how sorry I am. Sally. I wouldn't have had it happen for amillion dollars. Nor would Fillmore. I'm not sure that I blame him forgetting cold feet and backing out of telling you himself. He just hadn'tthe nerve to come and confess that he had fooled away your money. He washoping all along that this fight would pan out big and that he'd be ableto pay you back what you had loaned him, but things didn't happenright."Sally was silent. She was thinking how strange it was that this room inwhich she had hoped to be so happy had been from the first moment of heroccupancy a storm centre of bad news and miserable disillusionment. Inthis first shock of the tidings, it was the disillusionment that hurtmost. She had always been so fond of Elsa, and Elsa had always seemed sofond of her. She remembered that letter of Elsa's with all itsprotestations of gratitude... It wasn't straight. It was horrible.

　　Callous, selfish, altogether horrible...

　　"It's..." She choked, as a rush of indignation brought the tears to hereyes. "It's... beastly! I'm... I'm not thinking about my money. That'sjust bad luck. But Elsa..."Mrs. Fillmore shrugged her square shoulders.

　　"Well, it's happening all the time in the show business," she said.

　　"And in every other business, too, I guess, if one only knew enoughabout them to be able to say. Of course, it hits you hard because Elsawas a pal of yours, and you're thinking she might have considered youafter all you've done for her. I can't say I'm much surprised myself."Mrs. Fillmore was talking rapidly, and dimly Sally understood that shewas talking so that talk would carry her over this bad moment. Silencenow would have been unendurable. "I was in the company with her, and itsometimes seems to me as if you can't get to know a person right throughtill you've been in the same company with them. Elsa's all right, butshe's two people really, like these dual identity cases you read about.

　　She's awfully fond of you. I know she is. She was always saying so, andit was quite genuine. If it didn't interfere with business there'snothing she wouldn't do for you. But when it's a case of her career youdon't count. Nobody counts. Not even her husband. Now that's funny. Ifyou think that sort of thing funny. Personally, it gives me thewillies.""What's funny?" asked Sally, dully.

　　"Well, you weren't there, so you didn't see it, but I was on the spotall the time, and I know as well as I know anything that he simplymarried her because he thought she could get him on in the game. Hehardly paid any attention to her at all till she was such a riot inChicago, and then he was all over her. And now he's got stung. Shethrows down his show and goes off to another fellow's. It's likemarrying for money and finding the girl hasn't any. And she's got stung,too, in a way, because I'm pretty sure she married him mostly becauseshe thought he was going to be the next big man in the play-writingbusiness and could boost her up the ladder. And now it doesn't look asthough he had another success in him. The result is they're at outs. Ihear he's drinking. Somebody who'd seen him told me he had gone all topieces. You haven't seen him, I suppose?""No.""I thought maybe you might have run into him. He lives right opposite."Sally clutched at the arm of her chair.

　　"Lives right opposite? Gerald Foster? What do you mean?""Across the passage there," said Mrs. Fillmore, jerking her thumb at thedoor. "Didn't you know? That's right, I suppose you didn't. They movedin after you had beaten it for England. Elsa wanted to be near you, andshe was tickled to death when she found there was an apartment to be hadright across from you. Now, that just proves what I was saying a whileago about Elsa. If she wasn't fond of you, would she go out of her wayto camp next door? And yet, though she's so fond of you, she doesn'thesitate about wrecking your property by quitting the show when shesees a chance of doing herself a bit of good. It's funny, isn't it?"The telephone-bell, tinkling sharply, rescued Sally from the necessityof a reply. She forced herself across the room to answer it.

　　"Hullo?"Ginger's voice spoke jubilantly.

　　"Hullo. Are you there? I say, it's all right, about that binge, youknow.""Oh, yes?""That dog fellow, you know," said Ginger, with a slight diminution ofexuberance. His sensitive ear had seemed to detect a lack of animationin her voice. "I've just been talking to him over the 'phone, and it'sall settled. If," he added, with a touch of doubt, "you still feel likegoing into it, I mean."There was an instant in which Sally hesitated, but it was only aninstant.

　　"Why, of course," she said, steadily. "Why should you think I hadchanged my mind?""Well, I thought... that is to say, you seemed... oh, I don't know.""You imagine things. I was a little worried about something when youcalled me up, and my mind wasn't working properly. Of course, go aheadwith it. Ginger. I'm delighted.""I say, I'm awfully sorry you're worried.""Oh. it's all right.""Something bad?""Nothing that'll kill me. I'm young and strong."Ginger was silent for a moment.

　　"I say, I don't want to butt in, but can I do anything?""No, really, Ginger, I know you would do anything you could, but this isjust something I must worry through by myself. When do you go down tothis place?""I was thinking of popping down this afternoon, just to take a lookround.""Let me know what train you're making and I'll come and see you off.""That's ripping of you. Right ho. Well, so long.""So long," said Sally.

　　Mrs. Fillmore, who had been sitting in that state of suspendedanimation which comes upon people who are present at a telephoneconversation which has nothing to do with themselves, came to life asSally replaced the receiver.

　　"Sally," she said, "I think we ought to have a talk now about whatyou're going to do."Sally was not feeling equal to any discussion of the future. All sheasked of the world at the moment was to be left alone.

　　"Oh, that's all right. I shall manage. You ought to be worrying aboutFillmore.""Fillmore's got me to look after him," said Gladys, with quietdetermination. "You're the one that's on my mind. I lay awake all lastnight thinking about you. As far as I can make out from Fillmore, you'vestill a few thousand dollars left. Well, as it happens, I can put you onto a really good thing. I know a girl...""I'm afraid," interrupted Sally, "all the rest of my money, what thereis of it, is tied up.""You can't get hold of it?""No.""But listen," said Mrs. Fillmore, urgently. "This is a really goodthing. This girl I know started an interior decorating business sometime ago and is pulling in the money in handfuls. But she wants morecapital, and she's willing to let go of a third of the business toanyone who'll put in a few thousand. She won't have any difficultygetting it, but I 'phoned her this morning to hold off till I'd heardfrom you. Honestly, Sally, it's the chance of a lifetime. It would putyou right on easy street. Isn't there really any way you could get yourmoney out of this other thing and take on this deal?""There really isn't. I'm awfully obliged to you, Gladys dear, but it'simpossible.""Well," said Mrs. Fillmore, prodding the carpet energetically with herparasol, "I don't know what you've gone into, but, unless they've givenyou a share in the Mint or something, you'll be losing by not makingthe switch. You're sure you can't do it?""I really can't."Mrs. Fillmore rose, plainly disappointed.

　　"Well, you know best, of course. Gosh! What a muddle everything is.

　　Sally," she said, suddenly stopping at the door, "you're not going tohate poor old Fillmore over this, are you?""Why, of course not. The whole thing was just bad luck.""He's worried stiff about it.""Well, give him my love, and tell him not to be so silly."Mrs. Fillmore crossed the room and kissed Sally impulsively.

　　"You're an angel," she said. "I wish there were more like you. But Iguess they've lost the pattern. Well, I'll go back and tell Fillmorethat. It'll relieve him."The door closed, and Sally sat down with her chin in her hands to think.

　　Mr. Isadore Abrahams, the founder and proprietor of that deservedlypopular dancing resort poetically named "The Flower Garden," leaned backin his chair with a contented sigh and laid down the knife and fork withwhich he had been assailing a plateful of succulent goulash. He wasdining, as was his admirable custom, in the bosom of his family at hisresidence at Far Rockaway. Across the table, his wife, Rebecca, beamedat him over her comfortable plinth of chins, and round the table hischildren, David, Jacob, Morris and Saide, would have beamed at him ifthey had not been too busy at the moment ingurgitating goulash. Agenial, honest, domestic man was Mr. Abrahams, a credit to thecommunity.

　　"Mother," he said.

　　"Pa?" said Mrs. Abrahams.

　　"Knew there was something I'd meant to tell you," said Mr. Abrahams,absently chasing a piece of bread round his plate with a stout finger.

　　"You remember that girl I told you about some time back--girl working atthe Garden--girl called Nicholas, who came into a bit of money andthrew up her job...""I remember. You liked her. Jakie, dear, don't gobble.""Ain't gobbling," said Master Abrahams.

　　"Everybody liked her," said Mr. Abrahams. "The nicest girl I everhired, and I don't hire none but nice girls, because the Garden's a niceplace, and I like to run it nice. I wouldn't give you a nickel for anyof your tough joints where you get nothing but low-lifes and scare awayall the real folks. Everybody liked Sally Nicholas. Always pleasant andalways smiling, and never anything but the lady. It was a treat to haveher around. Well, what do you think?""Dead?" inquired Mrs. Abrahams, apprehensively. The story had soundedto her as though it were heading that way. "Wipe your mouth, Jakiedear.""No, not dead," said Mr. Abrahams, conscious for the first time that theremainder of his narrative might be considered by a critic something ofan anti-climax and lacking in drama. "But she was in to see me thisafternoon and wants her job back.""Ah!" said Mrs. Abrahams, rather tonelessly. An ardent supporter of thelocal motion-picture palace, she had hoped for a slightly more gingerydenouement, something with a bit more punch.

　　"Yes, but don't it show you?" continued Mr. Abrahams, gallantly tryingto work up the interest. "There's this girl, goes out of my place notmore'n a year ago, with a good bank-roll in her pocket, and here she is,back again, all of it spent. Don't it show you what a tragedy life is,if you see what I mean, and how careful one ought to be about money?

　　It's what I call a human document. Goodness knows how she's been andgone and spent it all. I'd never have thought she was the sort of girlto go gadding around. Always seemed to me to be kind of sensible.""What's gadding, Pop?" asked Master Jakie, the goulash having ceased tochain his interest.

　　"Well, she wanted her job back and I gave it to her, and glad to get herback again. There's class to that girl. She's the sort of girl I want inthe place. Don't seem quite to have so much get-up in her as she usedto... seems kind of quieted down... but she's got class, and I'm gladshe's back. I hope she'll stay. But don't it show you?""Ah!" said Mrs. Abrahams, with more enthusiasm than before. It had notworked out such a bad story after all. In its essentials it was notunlike the film she had seen the previous evening--Gloria Gooch in "AGirl against the World.""Pop!" said Master Abrahams.

　　"Yes, Jakie?""When I'm grown up, I won't never lose no money. I'll put it in thebank and save it."The slight depression caused by the contemplation of Sally's troublesleft Mr. Abrahams as mist melts beneath a sunbeam.

　　"That's a good boy, Jakie," he said.

　　He felt in his waistcoat pocket, found a dime, put it back again, andbent forward and patted Master Abrahams on the head.