That morning she went over to the dingy row of buildings to sign the lease of the hall for three evenings a week, as quarters for Combat Club No. 1.
The stuffy place where the Red Flag Club had met the night before was still reeking with stale smoke and the effluvia of the unwashed; but the windows were 182 open and a negro was sweeping up a litter of defunct cigars.
“Yaas’m, Mr. Puma’s office is next do’,” he replied to Palla’s inquiry; “––Sooperfillum Co’poration. Yaas’m.”
Next door had been a stable and auction ring, and odours characteristic still remained, although now the ring had been partitioned, boarded over and floored, and Mr. Hewitt’s glass rods full of blinding light were suspended above the studio ceilings of the Super-Picture Corporation.
Palla entered the brick archway. An office on the right bore the name of Angelo Puma; and that large, richly coloured gentleman hastily got out of his desk chair and flashed a pair of magnificent as well as astonished eyes upon Palla as she opened the door and walked in.
When she had seated herself and stated her business, Puma, with a single gesture, swept from the office several men and a stenographer, and turned to Palla.
“Is it you, then, who are this Combat Club which would rent from me the hall next door!” he exclaimed, showing every faultless tooth in his head.
Palla smiled: “I am empowered by the club to sign a lease.”
“That is sufficient!” exclaimed Puma, with a superb gesture. “So! It is signed! Your desire is enough. The matter is accomplished when you express the wish!”