“Think? Hell! I know I can! I’ll call on you in your church at noon tomorrow.”
“I won’t be there.”
“You better be! If you’re ready to compromise for ten thousand, all right; no feelings hurt. If not, I’ll have my lawyer (and he’s Mannie Silverhorn, the slickest shyster in town) file suit for alienation tomorrow afternoon—and make sure that the evening papers get out extras on it. By-by, Hettie. ‘By, Elmer darling. Whoa, Elmer! Naughty, naughty! You touch me and I’ll plug you! So long.”
Elmer gaped after the departing Oscar. He turned quickly and saw that Hettie was grinning.
She hastily pulled down her mouth.
“My God, I believe you’re in on this!” he cried.
“What of it, you big lummox! We’ve got the goods on you. Your letters will sound lovely in court! But don’t ever think for one moment that workers as good as Oscar and I were wasting our time on a tin-horn preacher without ten bucks in the bank! We were after William Dollinger Styles. But he isn’t a boob, like you; he turned me down when I went to lunch with him and tried to date him up. So, as we’d paid for this plant, we thought we might as well get our expenses and a little piece of change out of you, you short-weight, and by God we will! Now get out of here! I’m sick of hearing your blatting! No, I don’t think you better hit me. Oscar’ll be waiting outside the door. Sorry I won’t be able to be at the church tomorrow—don’t worry about my things or my salary—I got ’em this afternoon!”
III
At midnight, his mouth hanging open, Elmer was ringing at the house of T. J. Rigg. He rang and rang, desperately. No answer. He stood outside then and bawled “T. J.! T. J.!”
An upper window was opened, and an irritated voice, thick with sleepiness, protested, “Whadda yuh want!”