Part 12 (1/2)

”Why, yes, Mr. Bayne,” says I. ”I've chewed it over some; but I ain't quite made up my mind to take it on.”

”You haven't!” says he, his nice, white, respectable eyebrows showin'

great surprise. ”But, my dear man, I personally had that offer made to you. Why, we could have---- But never mind that. I hope you may see fit to give us your answer by Sat.u.r.day noon.”

”That depends,” says I, ”on whether you come for it or not.”

”I beg pardon?” says he, starin'.

”At the studio,” says I, shovin' over one of my professional cards.

”That's where I do business. So long, Mr. Bayne.” And with that I throws in the clutch and leaves him gawpin'!

”Why, Shorty!” says Sadie. ”How horrid of you! And Mr. Bayne is such a nice old gentleman too!”

”Yes, ain't he?” says I. ”And for smoothness he's got a greased plank lookin' like a graveled walk.”

I didn't think he'd come after that. But the other lines they had out must have been hauled in empty; for not ten days later I has a 'phone call from him sayin' he's in town and that if it's convenient he'll drop around about three P.M.

”I'll be here,” says I.

”And I trust,” he adds, ”that I--er--may not encounter any pugilists or--er----”

”You'll be safe,” says I, ”unless some of my Wall Street customers break office rules and try to ring you in on a margin deal. Outside of them, or now and then a railroad president, the studio has a quiet, refined patronage.”

”Ah, thanks,” says he.

”Swifty,” says I to my a.s.sistant, ”don't show yourself in the front office after three to-day. I'm goin' to entertain a pillar of society, and a sight of that mug of yours might get him divin' through the window.”

”Ahr-r-r-r chee!” remarks Swifty Joe, catchin' the wink.

Course, I might have got real peevish over Mr. Bayne's suspicions, and told him to go chase himself; but I'm feelin' sort of good-humored that day. Besides, thinks I, it won't do any harm to show him just how peaceful and respectable a physical culture studio can be. You know the ideas some people get. And as a rule our floor here is the quietest in the buildin'. I knew it would be that day specially; for all we had on the slate was a couple of poddy old parties who'd be workin' away at the apparatus, havin' about as strenuous a time as a baby playin' with its toes.

But I hadn't counted in that Sieger & Bloom combination, up on the fourth. They run a third-rate theatrical agency, you know, and just about then they was fillin' out contracts for summer snaps, and what you saw driftin' up and down the stairs didn't make you yearn to be a vaudeville actor. So later on, when I heard an argument in progress out in the hall, I glances nervous at the clock. It's almost on the tick of three.

”Hey, cut out the riot!” I calls through the transom; but as there's no letup to the debate I strolls over to the door, prepared to reprove someone real severe.

It's quite some spirited scene out on the landin'. There's old man Bloom, a short, squatty, fish-eyed old pirate with a complexion like sour dough. He has one foot on the next flight, and seems to be retreatin' as he waves his pudgy hands and sputters. Followin' him up is a tall, willowy, black-eyed young woman in a giddy Longchamps creation direct from Ca.n.a.l-st. She's pleadin' earnest that Bloom mustn't forget he's talkin' to a lady. Behind her is a husky, red-haired young gent with his fingers bunched menacin'; while just below, hesitatin' whether to push through the hostilities or beat it back to the street, is Elisha P. Bayne, Esq.

”Give us a show to make good, that's all we ask,” the young woman is sayin'. ”Put us on somewhere, as you said you would when you took our money.”

”Bah!” snorts old Bloom. ”I vouldn't sign you for a Third-ave. cabaret.

Your act is rotten. A pair of cheab skaters, you are--cheab skaters!”

”Oh, we are, are we?” explodes the young woman. Then, biff! out flashes one of her long arms, and the next thing Bloom knows his silk lid has been smashed down over his eyes.

”Helb! Helb!” he squeals. ”Bolice! I vill ged the bolice after you.”

With that he makes a break past her and goes waddlin' downstairs on the run.

”Now I've done it, I reckon,” says the young woman. ”And that about finishes us, Timothy dear. He's after a cop.”

”Yes, and he'll bring one back,” I puts in, ”or I don't know Abie Bloom.