A little bit of a man, bald-headed, with a dyspeptic little black
mustache turned down at the corners, watched me come in. He
grinned at my make-up, and then at me.

"Clever little girl," he says through his nose. "How much do
you stick Obermuller for?"

"Clever little man," say I, bold as brass and through my own
nose; "none of your business."

"Hi--you, Olden!" roared Obermuller, as though I'd run away and
he was trying to get the bit from between my teeth. "Answer the
gentleman prettily. Don't you know a representative of the mighty
T. T. when you see him? Can't you see the Syndicate aureole about
his noble brow? This gentleman, Nance, is the great and only Max
Tausig. He humbleth the exalted and uplifteth the lowly--or, if
there's more money in it, he gives to him that hath and steals
from him that hasn't, but would mighty well like to have. He has
no conscience, no bowels, no heart. But he has got tin and nerve
and power to beat the band. In short, and for all practical
purposes for one in your profession, Nancy Olden, he's just God.
Down on your knees and lick his boots--Trust gods wear boots,
patent leathers--and thank him for permitting it, you lucky
baggage!"

I looked at the little man; the angry red was just fading from
the top of his cocoanut-shaped bald head.

"You always were a fool, Obermuller," he said cordially. "And
you were always over-fond of your low-comedian jokes. If you