“Miss Slosson, the pie editor—right in the back of the office here,” responded the girl.
Jimmy grabbed Tom Wilson by the arm and led him towards the rear of the room.
“I’m going to put it over on this sheet again just for luck,” he confided.
A sign reading, “Enter Your Pies Here,” attracted them to a railed-off corner of the big office room. A stout woman in the skittish forties, who was dressed like an ingenue, looked up at them from behind a table on which a number of luscious looking apple pies reposed. On shelves on the wall behind her, scores of other pies, all tagged, were arranged.
“Is this contest open to anyone?” inquired Jimmy bowing pleasantly.
“Certainly,” gushed the pie editor. “I’m so glad to see gentlemen in this office. So many women have been in since we opened this contest that it makes one feel rather lonesome for the stronger sex. Do you wish to enter a pie?”
“Yes, m’am,” replied Jimmy promptly.
“Oh, a gentleman cook,” Miss Slosson rattled on. “How utterly adorable. Do you know I’ve always felt that there was no reason on earth why a man shouldn’t take a hand in the kitchen if he chose. It’s only a foolish convention——”
“Please, Miss Slosson,” broke in Jimmy drowning out a chuckle from Tom Wilson which seriously threatened to develop into a ribald laugh, “please—the pie I want to enter wasn’t baked by myself. It isn’t baked yet by anyone. I wanted to know if you’d be interested in having a pie entered by Madame Olga Stephano?”
“You mean the Russian actress who’s coming to the Standard next week?” asked Miss Slosson.