At that Zinsheimer threw open his coat easily, sighed with relief, and inquired easily:
"Why, certainly, my dear. What is it you want?"
"Well, it's about my chum, Pinkie Lexington," began Flossie, brushing a few spects of dust from Mr. Zinsheimer's coat-sleeve. "We were out together two years ago with 'The Girl from Paris'—the time it stranded in Butte and you sent us the railroad tickets to come home."
"I remember," interrupted Zinsheimer, quickly. "Rather a pretty girl she was, too."
"She's still pretty, but she's awful fat," resumed Flossie, wonderfully innocently. "And I never heard any one call her beautiful. Anyhow, the show she's with has gone on the rocks up near Indianapolis, and Pinkie has been left high and dry without a cent."
"So you want me to send her some more rocks, eh?"
"Not at all. Pinkie wrote me all about it, and I wired her to come down here at once. She's due this afternoon, and I can share my room with her if you'll just speak to the manager and say we're good for the money."
Zinsheimer scratched his head reflectively.
"But neither of you has any money," he ventured.
"You know as soon as my lawsuit is settled, I will be on velvet," retorted Flossie, haughtily. "Meanwhile, your word with the manager goes."