"I came to see if you would allow me to take my overcoat for a few days,—until this cold spell is over,—with the understanding—"
"Nothing doing," said she curtly. "Six dollars due on it."
"But I have not the six dollars, madam. Surely you may trust me."
"Why didn't you bring your fiddle along? You could leave it in place of the coat. Go and get it and I'll see what I can do."
"I am to play tonight at the house of a Mr. Carpenter. He has heard of me through our friend Mr. Trotter, his chauffeur. You know Mr. Trotter, of course."
"Sure I know him, and I don't like him. He insulted me once."
"Ah, but you do not understand him, madam. He is an Englishman and he may have tried to be facetious or even pleasant in the way the English—"
"Say, don't you suppose I know when I'm insulted? When a cheap guy like that comes in here with a customer of mine and tells me I'm so damned mean they won't even let me into hell when I die,—well, if you don't call that an insult, I'd like to know what it is. Don't talk to me about that bum!"
"Is that all he said?" involuntarily fell from the lips of the violinist, as if, to his way of thinking, Mr. Trotter's remark was an out-and-out compliment. "Surely you have no desire to go to hell when you die."
"No, I haven't, but I don't want anybody coming in here telling me to my face that there'd be a revolution down there if I tried to get in. I've got as much right there as anybody, I'd have him know. Cough up six or get out. That's all I've got to say to you, my little man."