So swiftly and blithely does one become hardened to impotent scorn! Thus was twenty-five cents added to the mounting record.
His evening was free. He decided upon a light and hasty dinner, followed by the theater—if the magical arbiter would permit. By repeating his simple expedient of leaving his outer apparel in his room he eluded the coat-check impost, and genially smiled at the disgruntled Amazons, who seemed to be asking each other whether this comparatively nude intruder had perhaps pawned his overcoat.
“Dry Martini,” ordered E. Van Tenner upon seating himself. Instantly and miraculously the beggar’s wallet seemed to have dropped from his vest pocket to the pit of his stomach, upon which it pressed with a destructive insistence.
“Wait a moment!” said its proprietor slave hastily to the waiter; then added in a low but indignant undertone: “See here! It isn’t your affair to censor my morals and habits. You’re a committee on finance, and that’s all!” He plucked forth the purse into the light of day. “What’s the good?” it inquired with an air of sweet reasonableness.
E. Van Tenner reflected. After all, what was the good? Either he had an appetite for dinner, in which case he didn’t need the cocktail; or else he needed the cocktail to create an appetite for dinner, in which case it was high time that he quit the habit. Hadn’t the beggar distinctly told him that he needn’t give up anything which he wouldn’t be better off without. “Never mind the Martini,” said he wearily? During dinner he looked over the theatrical advertisements in his paper, and hesitating between those classically named productions whereto a discriminating public taste is addressed, Atta Boy, Oh, Slush, and Gertie’s Green Garters, fixed upon the latter. He must now retrieve his coat and hat, upon which he had saved another dime. Ascending to his room he switched on the lights, got into his outer garments, locked his door and started for the elevator. A slight but insistent cramp in the pocketbook halted him. What could that mean? He wasn’t spending any money. If it was a protest against theatergoing it was premature. Let it wait till he got to the theater! He started again, and caught his breath over a more pronounced pang. His eyes, turning upward, were arrested by the glowing glass of his transom. To be sure! He had left the lights on, thereby wasting coal for the hotel—upon which he had already saved a dollar and fifty-five cents.
“You are certainly some little economist!” he murmured to the occupant of his pocket as he returned and left the room in darkness.
At the theater a ducal personage behind a grille negligently informed him that there was nothing available in the orchestra before a week from Wednesday; but an undistinguished individual in the lobby—who may or may not have been there for that very purpose—mentioned that the Bilbosh Agency had some good seats. Thither went E. Van Tenner. Yes; the agency had a few seats left. There was one in the eighth row, three dollars and thirty cents, please. At the mention of the price the beggar’s purse leaped from E. Van Tenner’s hand and fell flat on its face upon the floor.
E. Van Tenner took it forth and gave it air. Now in our amiable and easy-going bachelor there was a definite streak of obstinacy. He had undertaken to see Gertie’s Green Garters and see it he would, always assuming that the magic receptacle would permit. He retraced his steps to the theater, retired to a corner of the lobby and drew forth the chancellor of his exchequer.
“What’s the good?” it questioned. But the effect was that of inquiry, not of challenge.
“The good is that I’ve done a day’s work and am entitled to some amusement. What’s the harm?”