“Why—why,” says he, “what does this mean, Mr. ——”
“Pardon,” says the gent, puffin’ and pushin’ to the front. “I intrude, yes? A thousand pardons. But I will explain. Next door I am dining—there is a window open—I hear that wonderful voice. Ah! that marvelous voice! Of what is the name of this artist? Yes? I demand! I implore! Ah, I must know instantly, sir!”
Well, you know who it was. There’s only one grand opera Napoleon with black whiskers who does things in that way, and makes good every trip. It’s him, all right. And if he don’t know a barytone voice, who does?
Inside of four minutes him and Hermy and Snick was bunched around the libr’y table, chewin’ over the terms of the contract, and next season you’ll read the name of a new soloist in letters four foot high.
Say, I was up to see Mr. Butters in his new suite of rooms at the St. Swithin, where it never rains but it pours. He’d held out for a big advance, and he’d got it. Also he’d invested part of it in some of the giddiest raiment them theatrical clothing houses can supply. While a manicure was busy puttin’ a gloss finish on his nails, he has his Mongolian valet display the rest of his wardrobe, as far as he’d laid it in.
“Did I get let in wrong on the Hermy proposition, eh?” says he. “How about stayin’ with your luck till it turns? Any reminder of the Doughnut incident in this? What?”
Do I debate the subject? Not me! I just slaps Snick on the back and wishes him joy. If he wants to credit it all up to a rabbit’s foot, or a clover leaf, I’m willin’ to let him. But say, from where I stand, it looks to me as if nerve and grit played some part in it.