“Ain’t you under that woman’s thumb, though! Call her bluff. She isn’t half the prima donna she thinks she is. On my side of the hall we know who’s who about this place.”
The business and editorial departments of “The Outcry” were separated by a long corridor and a great contempt. Miss Kalski dried her rings with tissue-paper and studied them with an appraising eye.
“Well, since you’re such a ’fraidy-calf,’” she went on, “maybe I can get a rise out of her myself. Now I’ve got you a ticket out of that shirt-front, I want you to go. I’ll drop in on Devine this afternoon.”
When Miss Kalski went back to her desk in the business manager’s private office, she turned to him familiarly, but not impertinently.
“Mr. Henderson, I want to send a kid over in the editorial stenographers’ to the Palace Thursday afternoon. She’s a nice kid, only she’s scared out of her skin all the time. Miss Devine’s her boss, and she’ll be just mean enough not to let the young one off. Would you say a word to her?”
The business manager lit a cigar.
“I’m not saying words to any of the high-brows over there. Try it out with Devine yourself. You’re not bashful.”
Miss Kalski shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“Oh, very well.” She serpentined out of the room and crossed the Rubicon into the editorial offices. She found Ardessa typing O’Mally’s letters and wearing a pained expression.
“Good afternoon, Miss Devine,” she said carelessly. “Can we borrow Becky over there for Thursday afternoon? We’re short.”