... It's not what you'd call a
time for taking chances, brother."
"What d'ye mean?" Francisco was a trifle startled.
"Nothing; nothing!" said the blind boss unctuously. "Think it over....
And remember, I'm your friend. If there's anything you wish, come to me
for it. Otherwise--"
Stanley looked at him inquiringly, but did not speak. Nor did Buckley
close his sentence. It was left suspended like the Damoclesian blade.
Francisco went straight home and found Jeanne busied with her needle and
some tiny garments, which of late had occupied her days. He was rather
silent while they dined, a bit uneasy.
* * * * *
Francisco usually went down town for lunch. There was a smart club
called the Bohemian, where one met artists, actors, writers. Among them
were young Keith, the landscape painter, who gave promise of a vogue;
Charley Stoddard, big and bearded; they called him an etcher with words;
and there were Prentice Mulford, the mystic; David Belasco of the
Columbia Theater. Francisco got into his street clothes, kissed Jeanne
and went out. It was a bright, scintillant day. He strode along
whistling.
At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room.
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