"With a sentimental interest, no doubt, in some sweet young thing who dances or sings, or thinks she does," comments Mr. Robert. "Anyway, look him up."
And by pushin' through a lot of doors that had "Keep Out" signs on 'em, and givin' the quick back up to a few fresh office boys, I trails Mr. Dick Harrington into the dark front of a theatre where he's sittin' with the producer and four of the seven authors of the piece watchin' a stage full of more or less young ladies in street clothes who are listenin' sort of bored while a bald-headed party in his shirt sleeves asks 'em for the love of Mike can't they move a little less like they was all spavined.
Don't strike me as just the place to ask a man will he stand up in church and help his daughter get married, but I had my orders. I slips into a seat back of him, taps him on the shoulder, and whispers how I have a message for him from his wife as was.
"From Louise?" says he. "The devil you say!"
"I could put it better," I suggests, "if we could find a place where there wasn't quite so much competition."
"Very well," says he. "Let's go back to the office. And by the way, Marston, when you get to that song of Mabel's hold it until I'm through with this young man."
And when he's towed me to the manager's sanctum he demands: "Well, what's gone wrong with Louise?"
"Nothing much," says I, "except that Miss Polly is plannin' to be married soon."
"Married!" he gasps. "Polly? Why, she's only a child!"
"Not at half past nineteen," says I. "I should call her considerable young lady."