Bob had called on the queer Italian at the latter’s room in the Railroad House. It was a poor enough place to live, but it suited Pietro and others of his kind.
“Sure, the dago’s up in his room,” Mike Brennan, proprietor of the hotel had said in response to Bob’s inquiry. “Go on up—we don’t keep elevators or bell boys here!”
So Bob had found the man in his dirty, dingy room, with a heap of rags in the corner for the monkey to sleep on.
“He do many fine tricks,” said the Italian, once he understood the object of Bob’s call. And he put Jacko through his stunts.
The compensation was agreed upon, Bob giving the man a few dollars more than he had asked, and now it was the night of the party, and Pietro, his organ and Jacko were on hand.
“Oh, isn’t he a dear!”
“So cute!”
“Will he bite?”
“I’d love to hold him! May I?”
Thus the girls in raptures over the monkey which sat perched on his master’s organ, his wizened face looking pathetically at the gay throng about him.