Sunday Morning.
Dearest Sally,
Rehearsal was called for nine sharp yesterday. Brother and his brother were waiting. Girl and Man appeared at ten-ten. She said—
"Dearie, I hate to tell you, but I got bad news for you." Then, turning to him, she said, compassionately, "Say, hon', you tell her! I haven't got the heart."
"Why," said the bandit, regretfully, "what she means is this: she's got a swell chance to go on tour with 'Kiss and Tell,' and she feels like she hadn't ought to turn it down. It's more her line than this kind of thing, you know."
I counted ten to myself, slowly, and then I said:
"Very well. I daresay you know of some girl who is a quick study and can get up in the part by Monday, with your help."
She stared and then began to giggle. "Say, girlie, I'm the limit. Didn't I tell you? I married the boy!" At my gasp she went on, confidentially, linking her arm in mine. "Yes, dearie. You see, it's like this. I gotter have somebody, anyhow, to look after luggage, and you know what this life is. A girl's gotter have protection."
When they were gone I turned to look at Brother. I almost thought he was going to cry, and he began to cough, just as he does in the sketch.
"Oh, please," I said, "don't keep doing that! We aren't rehearsing now."