Between them they made a clean sweep of everything, falling back
finally on a huge round box of candies contributed the previous day
by Martin.

They made short work of several bottles of beer, also contributed by
Martin. He knew that Tootles was not paid a penny during rehearsals.
She laughed several times and cracked one or two feeble jokes--poor
little soul with the swollen eyes and powder-dabbed face! Her bobbed
hair glistened under the light like the dome of the Palace of Cooch
Behar under the Indian sun.

"Boy," she said presently, putting her hand on his knees and closing
her tired eyes, "where's that magic carpet? If I could sit on it
with you and be taken to where the air's clean and the trees are
whisperin' and all the young things hoppin' about--I'd give twenty-
five years of me life, s'elp me Bob, I would."

"Would you, Tootles?" A sudden thought struck Martin. Make use of
that house in the country, make use of it, lying idle and neglected!

"Oh," she said, "to get away from all this for a bit--to shake
Broadway and grease paint and slang and electric light, if only for
a week. I'm fed up, boy. I'm all out, like an empty gasoline tin. I
want to see something clean and sweet."

Martin had made up his mind. Look at that poor little bruised soul,
as much in need of water as those sad flowers in the milk bottle.
"Tootles," he said, "pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, and
be ready for me in the morning."