“You don’t mean Bobby Brut, do you?” says I.
“Robert K. Rankin is the young man’s name, I believe,” says he,—“son of the late Loring Rankin, president of the Consolidated——”
“That’s Bobby Brut,” says I. “Don’t catch onto the Brut, eh? You would if you read the champagne labels. Friend of yours, is he?”
But right there the Rev. Mr. Hooker turns balky. He hints that his business with Bobby is private and personal, and he ain’t anxious to lay it before a third party. He’d told ’em the same at the desk, when someone from Bobbie’s rooms had ’phoned for details about the card, and then he’d got the turn down. But he wa’n’t the kind that stayed down. He’s goin’ to see Mr. Rankin or bu’st. Not wantin’ to ask for the elevator, he blazes ahead up the stairs; and Danny, it seems, hadn’t got on his track until he was well started.
“All I ask,” says he, “is five minutes of Mr. Rankin’s time. That is not an unreasonable request, I hope?”
“Excuse me,” says I; “but you’re missin’ the point by a mile. It ain’t how long you want to stay, but what you’re here for. You got to remember that things is run different on Fifth-ave. from what they are on Penrose-st., Mossy Dell. You might be a book agent, or a bomb thrower, for all the folks at the desk know. So the only way to get next to anyone here is to show your hand and take the decision. Now if you want to try runnin’ the outside guard again, I’ll call Danny back. But you’ll make a mess of it.”
He thinks that over for a minute, lookin’ me square in the eye all the time, and all of a sudden he puts out his hand. “You’re right,” says he. “I was hot headed, and let my zeal get the better of my commonsense. Thank you, Mr. McCabe.”
“That’s all right,” says I. “You go down to the office and put your case to ’em straight.”
“No,” says he, shruggin’ his shoulders, “that wouldn’t do at all. I suppose I’ve come on a fool’s errand. Kronacher, we’ll go back.”
“That’s too bad,” says I, “if you had business with Bobby that was on the level.”