Miss Annie Millikan's pert smile beamed through the window at Clay when he stepped up.
"Hello, Mr. Flat-Worker," she sang out. "How many?"
"I'm not going in to see the show to-night. I want to talk with you if you can get some one to take yore place here."
"Say, whatta you think I am—one o' these here Fift' Avenoo society dames? I'm earnin' my hot dogs and coffee right at this window. . . . Did you say two, lady?" She shoved two tickets through the window in exchange for dimes.
Clay explained that his business was serious. "I've got to see you alone—now," he added.
"If you gotta you gotta." The girl called an usher, who found a second usher to take her place.
Annie walked down the street a few steps beside Clay. The little puncher followed them dejectedly. His confidence had gone down to chill zero.
"What's the big idea in callin' me from me job in the rush hours?" asked Miss Millikan. "And who's this gumshoe guy from the bush league tailin' us? Breeze on and wise Annie if this here business is so important."
Clay told his story.
"Some of Jerry's strong-arm work," she commented.