His eyes met Maizie’s significantly, and then veered almost imperceptibly in the direction of Berel.
“Go ahead, kid—vamp him! We’ve got to have him,” was the message they conveyed to her.
Maizie put her hand prettily on the youth’s arm.
“With an air like that, and the right lines—oh, boy, I’d flood Broadway with tears!”
Berel stood bewildered under the spell of her showy beauty. Unconsciously his hand went to his pocket, where lay his precious verses.
“I—I can’t change my lines for the mob,” he stammered.
But Maizie’s little hand crept down his arm until it, too, reached his pocket, while her face was raised alluringly to his.
“Let’s see it, Mr. Poet—do, please!”
Suddenly, with a triumphant ripple of laughter, she snatched the pages and glanced rapidly through the song. Then, with her highly manicured fingers, she grasped the lapels of Berel’s coat, her eyes dancing with a coquettish little twinkle.
“It’s wonderful!” she flattered. “Just give me the chance to put it over, and all the skirts from here to Denver will be singing it!”