appened at the dress rehearsal of
'The Ukelele Girl'? Well, the word's gone around about her chucking the
show at the last minute, and it's thumbs down for Tootles. She hadn't a
nickel when she came back from your place, and since then she's pawned
herself right down to the bone to pay her rent and get a few eats. She
wouldn't take nothing from me because I'm out too, and this is a bad
time to get into anything new. Only two things can stop her from being
put out at the end of the week. One's going across the passage to the
drunken fellow that writes music, and the other's telling the tale to
you. She won't do either. I've never seen her the way she is now. She
sits around, staring at the wall, and when I try to put some of her
usual pep into her she won't listen. She's all changed since that taste
of the country, and I figure she won't get on her feet again without a
big yank up. She keeps on saying to herself, like a sort of song, 'Oh,
Gawd, for a sight of the trees,' and I've known girls end it quick when
they get that way."

Martin got up. "Where do you keep your pen and ink?" he asked. Poor old
Tootles. There certainly was something to do.

Irene bent forward eagerly. "Are you going to see her through this
snag?"

"Of course I am."

"Ah, that's the talk. But wait a second. We got to be tricky about
this." She was excited and tremendously in earnest. "If she gets to
know I've been holding out the hat to you, we're wasting time. Give me
the money, see? I'll make up a peach of a story about how it came to
me,--the will of a rich uncle in Wisconsin or something, you know,--and
ask her to come and help me blow it in somewhere on the coast, see? She
gave me three weeks' holiday once. It's my turn now, me being in
luck.... But perhaps you don't trust me?"

"You trust me," said Martin, and gave her one of his honest smiles.

He caught sight of a bottle of ink on the window sill. There was a pen
of sorts there also. He brought them to the table and made out a check
in the name of his fellow conspirator. He was just as anxious as she
was to put "a bit of pep" into the little waif who had sat beneath the
portrait of his father. There was no blotting paper, so he waved it in
the air before handing it over.

A rush of tears came to Irene's eyes when she saw what he had written.
She held out her hand, utterly giving up an attempt to find words.

"Thank you for calling up," said Martin, doing his best to be perfectly
na