Part 26 (1/2)

”I haven't got it.”

He stared at her until she backed away in awe. ”You--you haven't _got_--four or five _thousand_--?”

Mirabelle began to whimper. ”I've been so sure of--of August, you know--I've spent all Mr. Archer sent me. I--”

As he stepped forward, Mirabelle retreated. ”You've got something of your own, though?” It wasn't an ordinary question, it was an agonized appeal.

”Only a separate trust fund John set up for me before he died--fifty thousand dollars--I just get the interest--sixty dollars a week.”

Mr. Mix sat down hard, and his breathing was laboured.

”Great--Jumping--Jehosophat!” He wet his lips, repeatedly.

”Mirabelle--listen--if they modify that ordinance--so Sunday shows are legal again--those other fellows'll want to buy back--their contracts--from Henry. There's only a few weeks--but if Henry only raised a thousand dollars--he'd be so close to his ten thousand--” He reached for a gla.s.s of water and drank it, gulping. ”Henry'll see _that_--he's got his eyes open every minute.... We've got to cut inside of him. Prevent those fellows from buying their Sunday leases back. Get hold of the man that's the boss of the Exhibitors'

a.s.sociation. Tell him we'll buy a _second_ option to lease the whole string of theatres for six weeks, subject to our getting a release from Henry. As if the League wanted 'em or something. Offer a big enough rent so they'll _have_ to accept--so they'd get more out of _us_ than if they opened up. Then they _can't_ buy back from Henry--and he's over a thousand short. I _know_ he is. And if you don't do it--” His gesture was dramatic.

Mirabelle's expression, as she wiped her eyes, was a pot-pourri of sentiments. ”Humph! Can't say I like the idea much, kind of too tricky.”

Mr. Mix played his last card. ”Don't the ends justify the means? You and I'd be philanthropists, and _Henry_--” He watched her quiver. ”And with a fund such as _we'd_ have, we'd begin all over again, and next time we'd win, wouldn't we?”

”Theodore. I've got fifty one hundred in the bank. It has to last 'till August. If you took five thousand _more_--”

He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the straw. ”You bet I'll take it. It's for _insurance_.

And you telephone to Masonic Hall and see what's left of the three grand you wired 'em from--”

”The what?”

”The money you sent from Chicago. Get what's left. Soon as I find out, I'll hustle down town and get busy.”

Mirabelle wavered. ”The Council's going to--”

Mr. Mix gave her a look which was a throwback to his cave-man ancestry. ”To _h.e.l.l_ with the Council!”

For an instant, her whole being rebelled, and then she saw his eyes.

”A-all right,” she faltered. ”I--I'll telephone!”

Inside of five minutes, she told him that of her loan, there was nothing left at all. The money had been wanted for the two-year rental of a new hall, at 300 Chestnut Street; the owner had made a marked concession in price for advance payment.

”Never mind, then,” he rasped. ”That's cold turkey. Give me a check for every nickel you've got.... And I'll want the car all day. I want a cup of coffee. And you wait right here until I get word to you what to do next.”

”Couldn't I even--”

”You stay here! Far's _I_ know, I'll have you making the rounds of the hock-shops to cash in your jewelry. But--” He relaxed slightly. ”But when it's for reform, my dear--when it's for civilization--the League--isn't it worth _any_ sacrifice?”

A spark of the old fire burned in her eyes. ”Humph! Good thing _one_ of us has _got_ something to sacrifice, if anybody asked me. But here's your coffee.... Don't make such a horrid noise with it, Theodore.”