“Well, I don’t know,” Bobby again hesitated. “I haven’t fully—”
“Go ahead,” urged Spratt heartily. “It’s your pick-up and I’ll get mine. Hey, Spencer!”
A thin young man, with hair so light that he seemed to have no hair at all and no eyebrows, came in.
“We’ve booked the Neapolitan Grand Opera Company for next week. Have they got Caravaggio and Ricardo with them?” he asked, turning abruptly to Bobby.
Bobby, with a smile, nodded his head.
“All right, Spence; get busy on some press stuff for the afternoon papers. You can fake notices about them from what you know. Use two-inch streamers clear across the pages, then you can get some fresh stuff and the repertoire to-night for the morning papers. Play it up strong, Spence. Use plenty of space; and, say, tell Billy to get ready for a three o’clock rehearsal. Now, Burnit, let’s go up to the Larken and make arrangements.”
“We might just as well wait an hour,” counseled Bobby. “The only one I found in the crowd who could speak English was Signorina Caravaggio.”
“I know her,” said Spratt. “Her other name’s Nora McGinnis. Smart woman, too, and straight as a string; and sing! Why, that big ox can sing a bird off a tree.”
“She’s just gone over to lunch with Biff Bates at the Spender,” observed Bobby, “and we’d better wait for her. She seems to be the leading spirit.”
“Of course she is. Let’s go right over to the Spender.”