"Well, then," said Mary, looking at the clothes and knowing well that they somewhere concealed an ample yellow sum, "why don't you take me on your staff?"
"Mary," he cried, trying to spread his hands, and failing dismally with the one that her pinioning arm hampered, "vhat do you think I am? A millionaire? I ain't got no staff."
"Come off!" she bantered.
"I ain't—honest."
"Still in the other line?" she persisted. "I thought you might be trottin' 'em on the street—they say there's more in it. Why do you stick to supplyin' the flats and the houses?"
Her voice was the perfection of good nature, but he writhed under it.
"Mary!" he pleaded.
"Well," she said, disregarding his tone, and keeping his arm fast in her own, "you do supply 'em, don't you? I know one fellow who makes his livin' goin' the rounds, findin' what girls is sore on their madams an' then gettin' a commission by sneakin' 'em out an' changin' 'em to new flats. He lets on he's sellin' kimonas, but one sample's lasted him three years."
"Mary!" repeated Max, more weakly.
"That's the truth," she said, and then: "But can't you start street-work an' take me on your staff?"