Why, in my town you can sit down anywhere in the city and eat ice-cream right off the street pavement with a silver teaspoon! In my town you could offer an Irish setter a life job with a fee of five thousand dollars for every smell he could find within a radius of twenty miles from the heart of the city and he'd die in the Poor House not worth a nickel! In my town"
Here, seeing Ogle approach, he stopped short, and his expression became solemn; he left the concierge and went to meet the young man. "I certainly had a wonderful busy night of it!" he said. "You happened to see Babe anywhere this morning?"
"No, I haven't."
Tinker rubbed his scented and glistening head. "I just wondered if she'd said anything to you, maybe. She certainly hasn't to me. Maybe she thinks her mother's sayin' enough, and I guess she is. Murder!" He moaned slightly and turned to rejoin the concierge; then an after-thought stopped him. "Listen," he said. "What's an impresario?"
Ogle looked at him strangely; but replied without giving any other evidence that the question inspired a train of thought. "A manager of an opera company, or of concerts, or a musical conductor. Why?"
