Charlie Murphy--or anythin' like that. No-oh! Not this infant. That's
where your friend _Hajj the Beggar's_ foot slipped on him. Up to then
he had everythin' his own way. If he'd only had sense enough to stall,
he'd've wound up in a blaze of glory."

"But, you bonehead," Violet argued candidly, "he had to. That was his
part: it was written in the play."

"G'wan. If he'd just stalled round and refused to jump through, the
author'd 've framed up some other way out. Why--blame it!--he'd've
_had_ to!"

"That will be about all for me," said Violet. "I don't feel strong
enough to-night to stand any more of your dramatic criticism. Lead me
home--and please talk baseball all the way."

With a resentful grunt, Mr. Bross clamped a warm, moist hand round the
plump arm of his charmer, and with masterful address propelled her
from the curb in front of the theatre, where the little party had
paused, to the northwest corner of Broadway: their progress consisting
in a series of frantic rushes broken by abrupt pauses to escape
annihilation in the roaring after-theatre crush of motor-cars. P.
Sybarite, moving instinctively to follow, leaped back to the sidewalk
barely in time to save his toes a crushing beneath the tires of a
hurtling taxicab.

He smiled a furtive apology at Molly Lessing, who had demonstrated
greater discretion, and she returned his smile in the friendliest
manner. His head was buzzing--and her eyes were kind. Neither spoke;
but for an instant he experienced a breathless sense of sympathetic