"Stout, Rex - The Rope Dance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stout Rex)and accosted one of the young women at the door of the cloakroom.
"I want to speak to the manager of the show," said he, hat in hand. "You mean the headwaiter?" she hazarded. "I don't know," replied Rick. "The man that runs the show on the platform. I saw it last night." "Oh," she grinned. "You mean the cabaret." "Do I? Much obliged. Anyway, I want to see him." "It ain't so easy," the young woman observed. "The boss tends to that himself. I'll see. Come in here." She led the way down a narrow, dark corridor to an office where stenographers and bookkeepers sat at their desks and machines, and turned Rick over to a wise- looking youth with a threatening mustache. The youth surveyed the caller with ill- concealed amusement at his ungraceful appearance, and when he finally condescended to speak there was a note of tolerant sarcasm in his voice. "So you want to see Mr. Dickson," he observed. "What do you want with him?" THE ROPE DANCE 9 "Listen, sonny." Rick was smiling, too, quietly enough. "No doubt we're having a lot of fun looking at each other, but my time's valuable just now. I'm Rick Duggett from Arizona. Report the fact to your Mr. Dickson." Thus did Rick make his way into the presence of Lonny Dickson, the best known man on Broadway and the owner of its most famous cabaret. He was a large, smiling individual, with a clear countenance and a keen, penetrating eye. As Rick entered the inner office where he sat at a large flat desk heaped with papers, smoking a long thin cigar, he got up from his chair and held out a hand in greeting. "Jimmie just told me," he observed genially, looking Rick in the eye, "that a wild guy from the West wanted to see me. I'm kind of wild myself, so I don't mind. But Jimmie didn't get the name--" "Duggett," said Rick, taking the proffered hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Duggett. What can I do for you?" Rick hesitated. "It's this way," he said finally. "I'm from Arizona. I'm a son of misfortune. Two days ago I had a roll big enough to choke a horse, but night before last I let it out to pasture, as though I wasn't |
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