“You goin’ to?”
“Guess I better, Mr. Carlson.”
Carlson jabbed Gurdy’s stomach with his cane and panted, “I can tell you what she wants and don’t you listen to it, neither. She’s had a fight with Billy Loeffler. He won’t put this whelp she married in her comp’ny. I bet she quits Loeffler. Her show’s no good, anyhow. Well, I won’t take her on. She’s a second rater. She’s an onion. I won’t have her for nothin’. Don’t you get sentymental about Cora Boyle any more, son!”
“You needn’t worry,” said Mark, patting Gurdy’s ear.
Gurdy sat up and inquired, “Is that the Cora Boyle grandpapa says was a loose footed heifer?” So Carlson broke into screaming mirth. Mark flushed and mumbled, sent the boy away and scowled respectfully at his partner. Sometimes Carlson’s crude amusement stung him.
“For God’s sake don’t talk of her in front of the kids, sir!”
“All right, son. Goin’ to let Gurdy come to the show tonight?”
“Not much!”
The old man lounged into a chair and jeered at his fosterling. Mark’s horror diverted him. He yapped, “Still think it’s a dirty show, do you?”
“Yes.... Oh, dunno! If there was anything to the slop but that second act, I wouldn’t care. Nothing but Sappho over again. Old as the hills.”