"I got everythin' but th' shoes, Bill," confided the signor in a public whisper. "They gimme a pair that was too small an' I chucked 'em."
Thus it was that the signor wore his own shoes, which were yellow, and knobby at the toes and had an air of sturdiness.
"You're great," said Bill, as he pounded him again on the shoulder. "What made you so late?"
But the signor did not seem to hear. His glance was roving, flashing here and there with a shiftiness and speed that bewildered.
"Some dump and some mob," was his ungrudging tribute. "What's th' price of a layout like this, Bill? I'm gonna get me one when I lick the champ."
The rigid pose of Mary Wayne suddenly relaxed. She appeared to deflate. Her muscles flexed; her knees sagged. She backed weakly out of the crowd and found support against the wall.
As for Pete Stearns, there was a rapt stare of amazed admiration on his face. He turned and whispered to Nell, whose hand he still gripped:
"The son of a gun! He held out on me. He never tipped me a word. But, oh, boy, won't he get his for this!"
As for Bill Marshall, he was presenting Signor Antonio Valentino to his guests. Some of the bolder even shook hands, but the uncertain ones bowed, while those of unconcealed timidity or ingrained conservatism contented themselves with glances which might have been either acknowledgments or a complete withdrawal of recognition.
The signor was unabashed. The days of his stage fright were long past; to him a crowd was an old acquaintance. He turned to Bill with a bland grin.