“That hundred wasn’t a bad investment, after all,” he said to his friend Rosen. “Why, there wasn’t a dozen people left in ‘The Olio’ after Ila began singing!”
“Here she comes!” said the song writer, as Marion entered. “I’ll leave you to make love to your little rustic prima donna!”
“Here are your hundred dollars, miss,” said Vondergrift, promptly, “and I’ll give you the same price if you will sing again this evening, and to-morrow I’ll make a contract to hire you for the season.”
Marion put the money in her pocket, and then faced him tremblingly.
“I had no idea, sir, that I was to sing in a drinking place,” she said, slowly; “believe me, your money would not have tempted me if I had known it. I am a temperance woman—I don’t believe in drinking liquor.”
Otto Vondergrift was so surprised that he could hardly speak for a moment.
“What, do you mean that you refuse my offer of one hundred dollars for an evening? Why, girl, are you mad, or are you dreaming?”
“I must refuse it, sir!” said Marion, sternly. “I do not approve of your concert hall, and I should feel disgraced were I to again appear in it!”
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” was the German’s only answer.
“I am very much obliged to you for the money,” said Marion, coolly, as she turned toward the door, after bidding him “good-morning.”