Shaking the clutch, Pape turned forcefully just as Welch joined Duffy. With but a fragment of a prefatory plan, his arms flung out flail-like and brought his two untimely callers into violent collision. A short-arm jab just below the curve of Duffy’s ribs doubled him over his undersized partner with a yap of pain. Before the lobby crowd realized that anything untoward was being punched, Pape’s identity as aggressor had been lost by his dash for the revolving exit.
Almost was he within one of the door’s compartments when again halted—this time by a slender youth with an eye-brow mustache.
“I beg pardon, but isn’t this Mr. Why-Not——”
That is as far as the probable third of the “adult males” got with his mannerly question. Perhaps the weariness of his voice and the weakness of his hirsute adornment gave Pape the idea. At any rate an unoccupied arm chair stood ready. Seizing the man’s slender shoulders, he seated his third caller therein with more force than courtesy.
“So glad to meet you, Mr. Pape,” this in a sort of gasp. “I’ve been here to see you several times. A small matter of business. I’m from the——”
Pape did not wait. He was not nearly so much concerned over the source of the youth as that Welch and Duffy soon would be up and after him. He had no time for further bouts with one, two or three, regardless of a constitutional disinclination to shirk battle. He pushed through the revolving door and into the traffic out front. On the opposite side of Broadway, he dived into the up-tide of pedestrians.
One observation disturbed him as he eased himself into an empty taxi, with an order to stop at the Maine Monument. Although all others of the varied sky-signs were alive, flaunting the wan daylight with their artificial blaze, the rose-wrought welcome to Why-Not Pape was dead. He’d find time in the morning to set off a less artificial blaze of indignation before the electric company for their neglect. Surely they could spare him as many kilowatts as that sausage maker or this movie maid! His need of the hired cheer of the sign no longer was urgent, now that he had been hand-clasped into the Lauderdale triumvirate. Still, the sign that had lit his way to Jane was worthy of perpetuation.
————
Before night-fall no likely place was left in the near vicinity of the poplars four for any old lady’s “laborer” to dig. From the shadow of the park wall, where crouched a poke-bonneted figure, sounded an order to cease work.
“Hope has died hard, harder even than you have dug, you human steam-shovel. I guess it’s no use.” Jane’s voice was as forlorn as she looked when Pape swung up at her call.