“I say the thing’s fixed,” insisted Druce. “All we’ve got to do now is carry out our part of the agreement and I’ve completed all of the arrangements. We’ve got a week.”
“I know,” said Anson, unconvinced. “It’s fixed and you’ve completed the arrangements. I’m from Missouri.”
“Boland wants this girl, Patience Welcome, brought in here next Saturday night,” said Druce. “He has arranged that his pious pup of a son, Harry, shall be here the same evening. We are to manage it so that he will get the impression that the girl has been amusing herself with him, that she has been kidding him along and playing this tenderloin game on the side. He’s not to be allowed to talk to her. He’ll see her—that will be enough. She’s to come here to help her mother earn a little cash. I sent a fellow to hire the old woman to start here on Saturday night as a scrub woman. She’s agreed to keep that part of it quiet. Then I’ll drag the other one in—mine, do you understand. We’ll make young Boland think the whole damned Welcome family belongs to us. We can see to it that the Patience girl gets some glad rags and some dope when she gets here. She’s seen me in Millville, so it’s up to you, Anson, to sign her up at good pay as a singer—” He stopped significantly.
“Too complicated,” was Anson’s rejoinder. “Sounds good on paper, but it won’t work, I tell you, it won’t work. I don’t like the way things have been going lately.” He drained the whisky glass. “This vice commission and this crazy yap of a Mary Randall—”
“O, hell!” interrupted Druce in disgust. “You’ve got it, too, have you? Mary Randall! My God, you talk like an old woman!”
“I tell you—” Anson began.
“You can’t tell me nothing. I’m sick and tired of framing stuff and then have you throw it down because you’ve lost your nerve and are afraid of a girl. I’m done, I tell you. If you think you can improve on my plans, go ahead. I’m through. I won’t—”
Anson capitulated immediately. “Now don’t get sore, Mart,” he whined, “I know I’m no good on this frameup stuff. Maybe I am a little nervous. Go ahead with your plan—I guess it’s the best one. Don’t let’s fight about it.”
“All right,” rejoined Druce. “Now that’s settled. I’ll handle this thing. All you’ve got to do is keep your trap shut and stand pat.”
The conversation was interrupted by the angry and maudlin exclamations of a girl. She had been sitting at a distant table half asleep. A porter had wakened her.