“What,” exclaimed the other, “is that tramp girl still in your house?”
“Yes, poor little devil. I’m going to ship her back to her native dairy this afternoon.... By the way, you’re dining with me, you know.”
Coltfoot nodded, pushed a button and dragged a bunch of copy toward him.
“Get out of here,” he said.
Annan lunched at the Pewter Mug, a club for clever professionals, where there were neither officers nor elections to membership, nor initiation fees, nor vouchers to sign.
Nobody seemed to know how it originated, how it was run, how members became members.
One paid cash for luncheon or dinner. The dues were fifty dollars yearly, dumped into a locked box in cash.
Of course, some one man managed the Pewter Mug. Several were suspected. But nobody in the large membership was certain of his identity.
Thither strolled Barry Annan after a scorching trip uptown. Wilted members drifted in to dawdle over cold dishes,—clever youngsters who had made individual splashes in their several puddles; professionals all,—players, writers, painters, composers, architects, engineers, physicians, sailors, soldiers,—the roll call represented all the creative and interpretive professions that America is heir to.