“What the devil did you do that for?” demanded Skidder.
Puma spread his jewelled fingers helplessly.
“How am I to know? I encounter people. I seek capital for my art. Me, I am all heart: I suspect nobody. I say: ‘Gentlemen, my art is my life. Without it I cease to exist. I desire capital; I desire sympathy; I desire intelligent recognition and practical aid.’ Yes. In time some gentlemen evince confidence. I am offered funds. I produce, with joy, my first picture. Ha! The success is extravagant! But––alas!”
“What tripped you?”
“Alas,” repeated Puma, “your Government arrests some gentlemen who have lend to me much funds. Why? Imagine my grief, my mortification! They are suspect of German propaganda! Oh, my God!”
“How is it they didn’t pinch you?” asked Skidder coldly, and beginning to feel very uneasy.
“Me? No! They investigate. They discover only Art!”
Skidder squinted at him nervously. If he had heard anything of that sort in connection with Puma he never would have flirted with him financially.
“Well, then, what’s this drag they got with you?––Sondheim and the other nuts?”