“Sure. Have an easy passage?”
Doc Curfoot’s foxy visage still wore traces of the greenish pallor; he looked pityingly at Brandes—self-pityingly:
“Say, Eddie, that was the worst I ever seen. A freight boat, too. God! I was that sick I hoped she’d turn turtle! And nab it from me; if you hadn’t wired 267 me S O S, I’d have waited over for the steamer train and the regular boat!”
“Well, it’s S O S all right, Doc. I got a cable from Quint this morning saying our place in Paris is ready, and we’re to be there and open up tonight––”
“What place?” demanded Curfoot.
“Sure, I forgot. You don’t know anything yet, do you?”
“Eddie,” interrupted Stull, “let me do the talking this time, if you please.”
And, to Curfoot:
“Listen, Doc. We was up against it. You heard. Every little thing has went wrong since Eddie done what he done—every damn thing! Look what’s happened since Maxy Venem got sore and he and Minna started out to get him! Morris Stein takes away the Silhouette Theatre from us and we can’t get no time for ‘Lilith’ on Broadway. We go on the road and bust. All our Saratoga winnings goes, also what we got invested with Parson Smawley when the bulls pulled Quint’s––!”
“Ah, f’r the lov’ o’ Mike!” began Brandes. “Can that stuff!”