"You don't know what you are doing," the old man screeched. "Stay here and you'll be famous. If you go back it is to oblivion. Oblivion! Very, well, go back! Go back, you—you nonentity!"
"You bet," Sextus panted to himself and tumbled onto the carpeted fourth floor hallway of the Mahoney-Plaza hotel.
Instantly, another voice, but without accent, accosted him shrilly from down the hall. "You, there. You mister manager." Sextus sighed mightily with relief. It was only Miss Genevieve Hafner holding a pimply-faced, red-haired youth by the ear.
True, Gary Gable and two hair-pulling, female starlets bore down right behind her, and rooms along both sides of the corridor were disgorging eddies of indignant displaced persons.
But these were things he understood. These were just beefs. Somewhat more involved than usual, but nothing much worse than a full-fledged convention at mid-night.
He adjusted his mashed carnation, brushed the crumbles of old brick dust from his morning coat and moved into the fray.
"Now, now, Miss Hafner! What are you up to this time?"