"Not," he said firmly, "until I've heard Cookie. How could I look my friends in the eye if I went home before that? Could I stand up in front of the Kiwanis Club in Terre Haute and confess that I'd been to New York, and been to Cookie's Cellar, and never heard her sing? Could I face—"
"She may be late," the waiter interrupted bleakly. "She is, most nights."
"I know," Simon acknowledged. "You told me. Lately, she's been later than she was earlier. If you know what I mean."
"Well, she's got that there canteen, where she entertains the sailors — and," added the glum one, with a certain additionally defensive awe, "for free."
"A noble deed," said the Saint, and noticed the total on the check in front of him with an involuntary twinge. "Remind me to be a sailor in my next incarnation."
"Sir?"
"I see the spotlights are coming on. Is this going to be Cookie?"
"Naw. She don't go on till last."
"Well, then she must be on her way now. Would you like to move a little to the left? I can still see some of the stage."
The waiter dissolved disconsolately into the shadows, and Simon settled back again with a sigh. After having suffered so much, a little more would hardly make any difference.