The smell of
fur and fragrant powder on warm flesh began to rise on a fog of best
Havana smoke. At the elevators women dropped out of their cloaks and, in
the bustle of checking, stood by, not unconscious of the damask finish
to bare shoulders.
When Mr. Herman Loeb detached himself from the human tape-line before
the box-office, the firm and not easily discomposed lines of his face
had fallen into loose curves, the lower lip thrust forward and the
eyebrows upward. Sheep and men in their least admirable moments have
that same trick of face. He rejoined his companion, two slips of
cardboard well up in the cup of his palm.
"Good seats, Herman?"
"I ask you, Sam, is it an outrage? Twenty bucks for a table on the
side!"
"No!"
"Is that highway robbery or not, I ask you!"
Mr. Samuel Kahn hitched at his belt, an indication of mental ferment.
"I wouldn't live in this town, not if you gave it to me!"
"It's not the money, Sam. What's twenty dollars more or less on a
business trip, and New-Year's Eve at that? But it's the principle of the
thing. I hate to be made a good thing of!"
"Twenty bucks!"
"Yes, and like he was doing me a favor, that Louis Slups kyin the
box-office who used to take tickets in our Olympic at home.
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