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Updated: June 15, 2025
I come here every night." Sally was aware of this. She had seen him often, but this was the first time that Lee Schoenstein, the gentlemanly master of ceremonies, had inflicted him on her. "I come here every night and dance past her table, but she won't look at me. What," asked Mr. Cracknell, tears welling in his pale eyes, "would you do about it?" "I don't know," said Sally, frankly.
That something was a red-headed young man of sturdy build who had just appeared beside the chair in which Mr. Reginald Cracknell was sitting in huddled gloom. In one hand he carried a basket, and from this basket, rising above the din of conversation, there came a sudden sharp yapping. Mr. Cracknell roused himself from his stupor, took the basket, raised the lid. The yapping increased in volume.
Who's going to do it? I thought you hadn't sent it out again." "Well, it happens..." Gerald hesitated once more. "It seems that this man I was dining with to-night a man named Cracknell..." "Cracknell? Not the Cracknell?" "The Cracknell?" "The one people are always talking about. The man they call the Millionaire Kid." "Yes. Why, do you know him?" "He was at Harvard with Fillmore.
Cracknell started so convulsively that he nearly jerked his collar off its stud. "Now, sweetie!" urged Mr. Cracknell. Miss Hobson said that Mr. Cracknell gave her a pain in the gizzard. She recommended his fading away, and he did so into his collar. He seemed to feel that once well inside his collar he was "home" and safe from attack. "I'm through!" announced Miss Hobson.
About the same time on that day Adrien Leroy was making his way in the new car through the crowded thoroughfare of Oxford Street. "Soho? Yus, sir. Crack'ell Court, fust turnin' on the left. I'll show yer, sir," piped the ragged urchin, whose heartfelt interest Leroy had purchased, along with his query, by means of a shilling. Cracknell Court was small, evil-smelling, and teeming with children.
A loathing for the Flower Garden flowed over Bruce Carmyle, and with it a feeling of suspicion and disapproval of everyone connected with the establishment. He sprang to his feet. "I think I will be going," he said. Sally did not reply. She was watching Ginger, who still stood beside the table recently vacated by Reginald Cracknell. "Good night," said Mr. Carmyle between his teeth.
There was something very touching about this little maid's weeping in her sleep, causing Aunt M'riar to give her a cracknell biscuit to consume if possible; to hold in her sleeping hand as a rapture of possession, anyhow. Dolly accepted it, and contrived to enjoy it slowly without waking.
Are we rehearsing, or is this a debating society? Miss Hobson, nothing is going to be written into anybody's part. Now are you satisfied?" "She said..." "Oh, never mind," observed Miss Winch, equably. "It was only a random thought. Working for the good of the show all the time. That's me." "Now, sweetie!" pleaded Mr. Cracknell, emerging from the collar like a tortoise.
Cracknell, seizing his opportunity like a good general, had deposited himself in a chair at her side. The course of true love was running smooth again. The red-headed young man was gazing fixedly at Sally. "As a dancer!" ejaculated Mr. Carmyle. Of all those within sight of the moving drama which had just taken place, he alone had paid no attention to it.
She seemed to have been through all this before. Then she remembered. This was simply Mr. Reginald Cracknell over again. "I think you had better go to bed, Gerald," she said steadily. Nothing about him seemed to touch her now, neither the sight of him nor his shameless misery. "What's the use? Can't sleep. No good. Couldn't sleep. Sally, you don't know how worried I am.
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