“That eighteen other girls had already been there that week.”
“Gave you the icy mit, eh?” The moon-faced young man laughed and slapped his thighs. “You see, we’re kind of suspicious. The Sunday papers ‘d like to get Amateur Night done up brown in a nice little package, and the manager don’t see it that way. Gets wild-eyed at the thought of it.”
“And what’s your turn?” she asked.
“Who? me? Oh, I’m doin’ the tramp act to-night. I’m Charley Welsh, you know.”
She felt that by the mention of his name he intended to convey to her complete enlightenment, but the best she could do was to say politely, “Oh, is that so?”
She wanted to laugh at the hurt disappointment which came into his face, but concealed her amusement.
“Come, now,” he said brusquely, “you can’t stand there and tell me you’ve never heard of Charley Welsh? Well, you must be young. Why, I’m an Only, the Only amateur at that. Sure, you must have seen me. I’m everywhere. I could be a professional, but I get more dough out of it by doin’ the amateur.”
“But what’s an ‘Only’?” she queried. “I want to learn.”
“Sure,” Charley Welsh said gallantly. “I’ll put you wise. An ‘Only’ is a nonpareil, the feller that does one kind of a turn better’n any other feller. He’s the Only, see?”
And Edna saw.