Obermuller glared at him, and in the pause I murmured demurely:

"Only a six-year contract."

Mag, you should have seen 'em jump--both of 'em; the little man
with vexation, the big one with surprise.

A contract! Me?--Nance Olden! Why, Mag, you innocent, of course I
hadn't. Managers don't give six-year contracts to girl--burglars
who've never set foot on the stage.

When the little man was gone, Obermuller cornered me.

"What's your game, Olden?" he cried. "You're too deep for me;
I throw up my hands. Come; what've you got in that smart little
head of yours? Are you holding out for higher stakes? Do you
expect him to buy that great six-year contract and divvy the
proceeds with me? Because he will--when once they get their eye
on you, they'll have you; and to turn up your nose at their offer
if in just the way to make them itch for you. But how the deuce
did you find it out? And where do you get your nerve from,
anyway? A little beggar like you to refuse an offer from the T.
T. and sit hatching your schemes on your little old 'steen dollars
a week! . . . It'll have to be twice 'steen, now, I suppose?"

"All right, just as you say," I laughed. "But why aren't you
in the Trust, Fred Obermuller?"

"Why aren't you in society, Nance?"