“That story,” said Petite Jeanne, “sounds almost true.”
“True?” He beamed on her his old, gracious smile. “Of course it’s true. At least, I did once play a part in Ten Nights in a Bar Room—a mighty fine line, too, for a man who never drank a quart of whisky in his whole life.”
After that, Dan Baker sat for a time staring at the glittering bit of gold, the smallest coin of our realm. When he spoke again it was to the coin alone. “You came to me by chance. What for? To buy stale bread, and butter made from cocoanut oil, and a soup bone? Tell me. Shall it be this, or shall it be sirloin steak, a pie and a big pot of coffee with real cream?”
As Petite Jeanne looked and listened, she seemed to see him once again, standing half buried in snow, a tin cup frozen to his benumbed fingers. She was about to speak, to utter words of wise counsel, when with a suddenness that caused them all to start, there came a loud knock at the door.
CHAPTER XXVII
“THIS IS OUR GOLDEN HOUR”
The unexpected visitor was a short, stout man with a large hooked nose. So completely engulfed was he in a great raccoon coat, that on first sight not one of them recognized him. When, however, he had removed that coat he was known at a glance. It was none other than the rather ugly, fat Jew who had taken Angelo’s name and address on that dismal day when they stood with their trunks before the old Blackmoore theatre.
“So, ho!” he exclaimed. Just as, Jeanne thought, a bear might should he enter a cave filled with rabbits.
“Fine place here.” He advanced toward the fire. “All very cheerful. Delightful company. May I sit down?”
Without waiting for an answer, he took a chair by the fire.
An awkward silence followed. Petite Jeanne wiggled her bare toes; she had danced a little that evening. Swen pawed his blonde mane. Dan Baker stared dreamily into the fire.