on her, and she is showin' all her dimples once more. Say, they're
worth watchin', some of these fluff encounters.

My act? Ah, say, most of that good dope is all wasted. Nobody seems
excited over the fact that I've arrived, even Brooks Bladen. As a
salesman he ain't a great success, I judge. Don't tout up his stuff
any, or try to shove off any seconds or shopworn pieces. He just tells
me to look around, and half apologizes for his line in advance.

Well, for real hand-painted stuff it was kind of tame. None of this
snowy-mountain-peak or mirror-lake business, such as you see in the
department stores. It's just North River scenes; some clear, some
smoky, some lookin' up, some lookin' down, and some just across. In
one he'd done a Port Lee ferryboat pretty fair; but there's another
that strikes me harder. It shows a curve in the drive, with one of
them green motor busses goin' by, the top loaded, and off in the
background to one side the Palisades loomin' up against a fair-weather
sunset, while in the middle you can see clear up to Yonkers. Honest,
it's almost as good as some of them things on the insurance calendars,
and I'm standin' gawpin' at it when Brooks Bladen and Marjorie drifts
along.

"Well?" says he, sort of inquirin'.

"That must be one of the Albany night boats goin' up," says I. "She'll
be turnin' her lights on pretty quick. And it's goin' to be a corkin'
evenin' for a river trip. You can tell that by----"

But just here Marjorie gives me a jab with her elbow.