"Bertie, old scout," said Rocky, in a quiet, sort of crushed voice,
"we've always been pals, haven't we? I mean, you know I'd do you a good
turn if you asked me?"
"My dear old lad," I said. The man had moved me.
"Then, for Heaven's sake, come over and sit at our table for the rest
of the evening."
Well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.
"My dear chap," I said, "you know I'd do anything in reason; but----"
"You must come, Bertie. You've got to. Something's got to be done to
divert her mind. She's brooding about something. She's been like that
for the last two days. I think she's beginning to suspect. She can't
understand why we never seem to meet anyone I know at these joints. A
few nights ago I happened to run into two newspaper men I used to know
fairly well. That kept me going for a while. I introduced them to Aunt
Isabel as David Belasco and Jim Corbett, and it went well. But the effect
has worn off now, and she's beginning to wonder again. Something's got to
be done, or she will find out everything, and if she does I'd take a
nickel for my chance of getting a cent from her later on. So, for the
love of Mike, come across to our table and help things along."
I went along. One has to rally round a pal in distress. Aunt Isabel was
sitting bolt upright, as usual. It certainly did seem as if she had
lost a bit of the zest with which she had started out to explore
Broadway.
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