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.. yes," he murmured vaguely. "Yes!" "Well, there are thirteen here. Count 'em for yourself." He whipped round on Jill. "What's _your_ name? Who engaged you?" A croaking sound from the neighbourhood of the ceiling indicated the clearing of Mr. Pilkington's throat. "I--er--_I_ engaged Miss Mariner, Mr. Goble." "Oh, _you_ engaged her?" He stared again at Jill. The inspection was long and lingering, and affected Jill with a sense of being inadequately clothed. She returned the gaze as defiantly as she could, but her heart was beating fast. She had never yet been frightened of any man, but there was something reptilian about this fat, yellow-haired individual which disquieted her, much as cockroaches had done in her childhood. A momentary thought flashed through her mind that it would be horrible to be touched by him. He looked soft and glutinous. "All right," said Mr. Goble at last, after what seemed to Jill many minutes. He nodded to Mr. Saltzburg. "Get on with it! And try working a little this time! I don't hire you to give musical entertainments." "Yes, Mr. Goble, yes. I mean no, Mr. Goble!" "You can have the Gotham stage this afternoon," said Mr. Goble. "Call the rehearsal for two sharp." Outside the door, he turned to Mr. Pilkington. "That was a fool trick of yours, hiring that girl. Thirteen! I'd as soon walk under a ladder on a Friday as open in New York with a chorus of thirteen. Well, it don't matter. We can sack one of 'em after we've opened on the road." He mused for a moment. "Darned pretty girl, that!" he went on meditatively. "Where did you get her?" "She--ah--came into the office, when you were out. She struck me as being essentially the type we required for our ensemble, so I--er--engaged her. She--" Mr. Pilkington gulped. "She is a charming, refined girl!" "She's darned pretty," admitted Mr. Goble, and went on his way wrapped in thought, Mr. Pilkington following timorously. It was episodes like the one that had just concluded which made Otis Pilkington wish that he possessed a little more assertion. He regretted wistfully that he was not one of those men who can put their hat on the side of their heads and shoot out their chins and say to the world "Well, what about it!" He was bearing the financial burden of this production. If it should be a failure, his would be the loss. Yet somehow this coarse, rough person in front of him never seemed to allow him a word in the executive po
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