It wasn’t very long ago, so it’s only a step down to the present day.
The Hungarian gypsy band in a big cafe uptown was playing its head off, and every table was occupied. Over in one of the corners—a choice position, by the way—at a table on which were half a dozen empty wine bottles, sat two men and a woman. If you will look at them again you will notice that their faces are very familiar. Yes, that’s right, it is the pudding girl, the brewer’s son and the man who was going to be next to the real one at the big show when two were made one and the minister was paid double for working overtime. All three are a bit unsteady, naturally, for the soldiers on the table tell the story, consequently they are well primed for a scene of this kind.
The brewer’s son is talking to the other man, and the girl is playing a listening part, and playing it well.
“You only think you love,” he says, “but all you have done is to spend a few hundred dollars—or thousands, it makes no difference. You’d spend it anyhow in some other way. I’ve broken off my marriage for her, and that’s something. You’re a friend of mine and why don’t you let go?”
“That’s all right, and I agree to what you say. I haven’t the money I once had, and I don’t think I can keep the pace up much longer, but I don’t want to see Maud go up against it. She’s used to nice things. Suppose the Governor turns on you and cuts you off, what are you going to do then? You won’t have any more chance than I have. I know you’re all right now, but Maud’s got to be taken care of, and if I can do anything to put her on Easy Street I’ll do it.”
He reached for a half empty bottle and refilled his glass. He drank slowly and when he had finished he went on.
“Have you got as much as $10,000?” he asked, abruptly.
“Easy that.”
“I mean ready money?”
“Yes, ready money.”