Mr. Mix shook his head. “As much as that?”
Henry inquired of himself why, to accompany a question which was apparently one of mere rhetorical purport, Mr. Mix should have shaken his head. The action had been positive, rather than interrogative.
“Easy,” said Henry. “Come in next week, and see how we’re going to turn ’em away. I’ve got a new pianist; you’ll want to hear him. He looks like a Sealyhan terrier, but he’s got a 182 repertoire like a catalogue of phonograph records. I dare the audience to name anything he can’t play right off the bat––songs, opera, Gregorian chants, sonatas, jazz––and if he can’t play it, the person that asked for it gets a free ticket.”
“So––to use a colloquialism––you’re going very strong?”
“To use another colloquialism,” said Henry, “we fairly reek with prosperity, and we’re going to double our business. That is, unless you Leaguers stop all forms of amusement but tit-tat-toe and puss-in-the-corner.”
Mr. Mix smiled feebly. “One expects to be rallied for one’s convictions.”
Henry nodded, engagingly. “I certainly got rallied enough for mine. That justice of the peace rallied me for twenty-five to start with, and followed it up with twenty more.... But if you want my opinion, Mr. Mix, you’ll lay off trying to promote civic integrity with a meat-ax. All you did with that Sunday row was to take a lot of money away from the picture houses, and give it to the trolley company and the White City––white when it was painted. 183 And if you don’t behave, I won’t vote for you next election.”
Mr. Mix ignored the threat. “Come to a meeting of the League some time, Henry, and we’ll give you a chance to air your views.”
He reported the interview to Anna, and she seemed to find in it the material for reflection. She asked Henry if he thought that Mr. Mix was deliberately making up to Mirabelle. Henry reflected, also.