“Say, Jenkins,” Nathan remarked casually, “I’ve got a little request to make of your Miss Slosson who’s running this damned pie contest,—it closes today, you know,—is getting swamped downstairs and has sent out an S.O.S. to this floor for assistance. There’s nobody around yet but you. I wish you’d drop down there for an hour or so and give her a hand. Just as soon as one of the cubs show up I’ll send him down to relieve you.”
E. Cartwright reeled under this final blow to his dignity. The ends of his iron-grey walrus moustache dropped a full half inch as he looked up, bewildered.
“Pie contest—Miss Slosson,” he mumbled. “What could I possibly do in connection with that, or with her?”
“Oh, just help her and her assistant unwrap and tag some of the entries,” replied Nathan in a matter-of-fact tone, as he turned quickly to suppress a smile and hurried out of the tiny room.
E. Cartwright uttered a low moan expressive of profound and abysmal woe as he slipped on his coat and prepared to descend to Miss Slosson’s department.
Jimmy and his fellow conspirator found Miss Slosson in her office almost completely hidden by parcels containing pies. They did not notice E. Cartwright at first. That high authority on the spoken and written drama was in the throes of unutterable and indescribable mental anguish at a table fifty feet away untying innumerable bundles and humming a hymn of hate directed at newspaper work in general and soulless managing editors in particular.
The small colored boy, grunting under the weight of the wooden box, deposited the burden on the table.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Martin,” gurgled Miss Slosson, coming forward and surveying the box with interest, “and what have we here?”
“That’s the little old pie I told you I’d have the madame send on,” replied Jimmy glibly. “She made a mistake and sent it to the theatre. It just came by express a half an hour ago right through from Chicago.”