"
The singer caught sight of Armstrong.
"Hi! there, Johnny," she called; "I've been expecting you for an
hour. What kept you? Gee! but these smoked guys are the slowest you
ever saw. They ain't on, at all. Come along in, and I'll make this
coffee-coloured old sport with the gold epaulettes open one for you
right off the ice."
"Thank you," said Armstrong; "not just now, I believe. I've several
things to attend to."
He walked out and down the street, and met Rucker coming up from the
Consulate.
"Play you a game of billiards," said Armstrong. "I want something to
take the taste of the sea level out of my mouth."
VI
"GIRL"
In gilt letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were
the words: "Robbins & Hartley, Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was
past five, and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons,
scrub-women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office
building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings,
soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows.
Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to first
nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner's
commuter's joys.
"Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night," he said.
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