The Auction Block | Page 8

I'll frame it for a special cop at the back door, detailed to hold off the
matrimony squad of society youths, if you can use it."
"Don't go to the trouble," Pope hastily deprecated. "I know the story.
Now I'm going to leave and let Miss Lynn dress."
"Don't go on my account," urged Lilas. "This room is like a subway
station, and I've got so I could 'change' in Bryant Park at noon and
never shock a policeman."
"You won't say anything mean about us, will you?" Mrs. Knight
implored. "In this business a girl's reputation is all she has."
"I promise." Pope held out his hand to Lorelei, and as she took it her
lips parted in her ever-ready smile. "Nice girl, that," the critic remarked,
as he and Slosson descended the stairs.
"Which one--Lorelei, Lilas, or the female gorilla?"
"How did she come to choose THAT for a mother?" muttered Pope.
"One of Nature's inscrutable mysteries. But wait. Have you seen
brother Jim?"
"No. Who's he?"
"His mother's son. Need we say more? He's a great help to the family,

for he keeps 'em from getting too proud over Lorelei. He sells
introductions to his sister."
Campbell Pope's exclamation was lost in a babble of voices as a bevy
of "Swimming Girls" descended from the enchanted regions above and
scurried out upon the stage. Through the double curtain the orchestra
could be faintly heard; a voice was crying, "Places."
"Some Soul Kissers with this troupe, eh?" remarked Slosson, when the
scampering figures had disappeared.
"Yes. Bergman has made a fortune out of this kind of show. He's a
friend to the 'Tired Business Man.'"
"Speaking of the weary Wall Street workers, there will be a dozen of
our ribbon-winners at that Hammon supper to-night. Twelve 'Bergman
Beauties.' Twelve; count 'em! Any time you want to pull off a classy
party for some of your bachelor friends let me know, and I'll supply the
dames--at one hundred dollars a head--and guarantee their manners.
They're all trained to terrapin, and know how to pick the proper forks."
"One hundred? Last season a girl was lucky to get fifty dollars as a
banquet favor; but the cost of living rises nightly. No wonder
Hammon's against the income tax."
"Yes, and that's exclusive of the regulation favors. There's a good story
in this party if you could get the men's names."
Pope's thin lip curled, and he shook his head.
"I write theatrical stuff," he said, shortly, "because I have to, not
because I like to. I try to keep it reasonably clean."
Slosson was instantly apologetic. "Oh, I don't mean there's anything
wrong about this affair. Hammon is entertaining a crowd of other steel
men, and a stag supper is either dull or devilish, so he has invited a
good-looking partner for each male guest. It 'll be thoroughly refined,
and it's being done every night."

"I know it is. Tell me, is Lorelei Knight a regular--er-- frequenter of
these affairs?"
"Sure. It's part of the graft."
"I see."
"She has to piece out her salary like the other girls. Why, her whole
family is around her neck--mother, brother, and father. Old man Knight
was run over by a taxi-cab last summer. It didn't hurt the machine, but
he's got a broken back, or something. Too bad it wasn't brother Jimmy.
You must meet him, by the way. I never heard of Lorelei's doing
anything really--bad."
For the moment Campbell Pope made no reply. Meanwhile a great
wave of singing flooded the regions at the back of the theater as the
curtain rose and the chorus broke into sudden sound. When he did
speak it was with unusual bitterness.
"It's the rottenest business in the world, Slosson. Two years ago she
was a country girl; now she's a Broadway belle. How long will she last,
d'you think?"
"She's too beautiful to last long," agreed the press-agent, soberly,
"especially now that the wolves are on her trail. But her danger isn't so
much from the people she meets with as the people she eats with. That
family of hers would drive any girl to the limit. They intend to cash in
on her; the mother says so."
"And they will, too. She can have her choice of the wealthy rounders."
"Don't get me wrong," Slosson hastened to qualify. "She's square;
understand?"
"Of course; 'object, matrimony.' It's the old story, and her mother will
see to the ring and the orange blossoms. But what's the difference, after
all, Slosson? It 'll be hell for her, and a sale to the highest bidder, either
way."

"Queer little gink," the press-agent reflected, as he returned to the front
of the house. "I wish he wore stiff collars; I'd like to take him home for
dinner."
As Pope