“Now listen, Reg,” Mr. Patten said, in a soothing voice. “I’ve tried everything but Force, and now I’m driven to that. I’ve got to have that third Act. The company’s got the first two acts well under way, and I’m getting wires about every hour. I’ve got to have that script.”
“You go to Hell!” said Mr. Beecher. You could hear him plainly through the window, high up in the wall. And although I do not approve of an oath, there are times when it eases the tortured Soul.
“Now be reasonable, Reg,” Mr. Patten pleaded. “I’ve put a fortune in this thing, and you’re lying down on the job. You could do it in four hours if you’d put your mind to it.”
There was no anser to this. And he went on:
“I’ll send out food or anything. But nothing to drink. There’s Champane on the ice for you when you’ve finished, however. And you’ll find pens and ink and paper on the table.”
The anser to this was Mr. Beecher’s full weight against the door. But it held, even against the full force of his fine physic.
“Even if you do break it open,” Mr. Patten said, “you can’t go very far the way you are. Now be a good fellow, and let’s get this thing done. It’s for your good as well as mine. You’ll make a Fortune out of it.”
Then he went into his own door, and soon came out, looking like a gentleman, unless one knew, as I did, that he was a Whited Sepulcher.
How long I sat there, paralized with emotion, I do not know. Hannah came out and roused me from my Trance of grief. She is a kindly soul, although to afraid of mother to be helpful.
“Come in like a good girl, Miss Bab,” she said. “There’s that fruit salad that cook prides herself on, and I’ll ask her to brown a bit of sweetbread for you.”