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He stepped into an elevator chauffeured by a West Indian of the haughtiest blood. The dummy-chucker was suddenly conscious of his tattered garb, his ill-fitting, run-down shoes. He stepped, when they alighted from the lift, as gingerly as though he trod on tacks. A servant in livery, as had been the waiting chauffeur downstairs, opened a door.
Then, observing the speaking-tube, he said through it languidly: "The Park Square, Andrews." An obsequious doorman threw open the limousine door as the car stopped before the great hotel. He handed the dummy-chucker a ticket. "Number of your car, sir," he said obsequiously. "Ah, yes, of course," said the dummy-chucker. He felt in his pocket.
The dummy-chucker nodded. "There always is," he interrupted. "I forgot to mention that I bar kidnaping, too." "It's barred," said the young man. He hitched his chair a trifle nearer his guest. "She's beautiful. She's young." "And the money? The coin? The good red gold?" "I have enough for two. I don't care about her money." "Neither do I," said the dummy-chucker; "so long as I get my hundred.
"Go to it," observed his host genially. The dummy-chucker went to it for a good ten minutes. Then he leaned back in the heavily upholstered chair which the man servant had drawn up for him. He stared round him. "Smoke?" asked his host. The dummy-chucker nodded. He selected a slim panetela and pinched it daintily between the nails of his thumb and forefinger.
The dummy-chucker received two portions of the crudely blended poison that passed for whisky in exchange for his round silver dollar. It was with less of a shuffle and more of a stride that he retraced his steps toward Broadway. Slightly north of Times Square, he surveyed his field of action. Across the street, a vaudeville house was discharging its mirth-surfeited audience.
Outside was billed a huge picture of the star, a lady who received more money for making people weep than most actors obtain for making them laugh. The dummy-chucker eyed the picture approvingly. He took his stand before the main entrance. This was the place! If he tried to do business with a flock of people that had just seen Charlie Chaplin, he'd fail. He knew!
I'm a bum." "Doesn't seem to bother you," said his host. "It don't," asserted the dummy-chucker. "Except when the police butt into my game. I just got off Blackwell's Island this morning." "And almost went back this afternoon." The dummy-chucker nodded. "Almost," he said. His eyes wandered around the room. "Some dump!" he stated. Then his manner became business-like.
"How long will I be all that in the hotel?" asked the dummy-chucker dryly. "That's exactly the point," said the other. "You'll last about thirty seconds. The girl and I will be on the far side of the room. I'll take care that she sees you enter. Then, when you've been quietly ejected, I'll go over to the mâitre d'hôtel to make inquiries.
If he was surprised at his master's choice of guest, he was too well trained to show it. He did not rebel even when ordered to serve sandwiches and liquor to the dummy-chucker. "You seem hungry," commented the young man. The dummy-chucker reached for another sandwich with his left hand while he poured himself a drink of genuine Scotch with his right. "And thirsty," he grunted.
There were many women on East Fourteenth Street. With the seeing eye of the artist, the dummy-chucker looked them over and rejected them. Kindly-seeming, generously fat, the cheap movie houses disgorged them. A dozen alien tongues smote the air, and every one of them hinted of far lands of poverty, of journeys made and hardships undergone.
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