"That's the price," he tells me. "A hundred and fifty a week."
"I'm afraid the old bankroll is too weak," I says,—"too weak for that, anyhow. Drag the Kid out of that bridal suite and let him sleep in the hall. I'll—"
"Why, the idea!" butts in Miss Vincent. "You let him stay where he is, doctor. The money will be paid."
Before I could say anything, the door opens and in comes the dame that poses for all the magazine covers, dressed like a nurse. I never was much on describin'—I probably wouldn't have got ten people to watch the battle of Gettysburg if I'd have been the press agent—but this was the kind of dame that all the wealthy patients fall in love with in the movies—yeh, and out of 'em! The little white cap on top of her head looked like a dash of whipped cream on a peach sundae, and if you wouldn't have blowed up the city hall for the smile she sent around the room, I feel sorry for you. She crosses over and, in passin' me, she begs my pardon and threw that smile into high.
A hundred and fifty a week, eh? Well—I dives in my inside pocket.
"May I have your check, Mister—eh—ah—" pipes the doc.
"Green," I helps him out, "Johnny Green. Can you have a check? You said it!" I sits down and writes one out.
"Why this is for three hundred dollars!" he busts out, lookin' at it.
"Even so, brother," I grins, stealin' a slant at the Venus de California. "That's for me and the Kid. Gimme a room next to his and—"
"Do you think this is a hotel?" he frowns at me.