The Judge was whistling softly. “By George, Henry––”
“Can’t you see it working? I’m not sure anybody could even take a nap! And––”
The Judge stepped past him. “That’s all right, Henry. Stay where you are. I’m just going to telephone Rowland.... Hello: Mayor’s office, please––” He motioned to his son-in-law. “Make yourself comfortable––I shouldn’t wonder a bit if these blue-laws weren’t going to get just a little bit––bleached.”
On his delirious way to the Orpheum, he stopped in to see Bob Standish, not to share the joke with him, for Judge Barklay had laid great 265 stress on the closest secrecy, but in answer to a recent message asking him to call.
“What’s the excitement, Bob?”
His friend regarded him with the innocent stare which had made his fortune. “Remember I spoke to you some time ago about renting that space over the Orpheum?”
“The nursery? Yes.”
“Well, it’s come up again. Different party, this time. Of course he hasn’t seen it yet, but it’s a chap who wants about that much space––might want to enlarge it a little, but we’d arrange that; he’d do it at his own expense––and he’d pay fifteen hundred a year.”
Henry deliberated. “It’s so near the finish.... I don’t much care one way or the other. Who’s the party?”