Into Tony's eyes there came a
baleful gleam. His lean jaw jutted out threateningly.
"You're the real Weissenheimer kid, ain't you?" he sneered.
"Never mind. I'll get you at recess."
"Some day," drawled Miss Fink, checking the steak, "the
house'll get wise to your stuff and then you'll have to go back to
the coal wagon. I know so much about you it's beginning to make me
uncomfortable. I hate to carry around a burden of crime."
"You're a sorehead because Heiny turned you down and now----"
"Move on there!" snapped Miss Fink, "or I'll call the steward
to settle you. Maybe he'd be interested to know that you've been
counting in the date and your waiter's number, and adding 'em in at
the bottom of your check."
Tony, the Crook, turned and skimmed away toward the
dining-room, but the taste of victory was bitter in Miss Fink's
mouth.
Midnight struck. There came from the direction of the Pink
Fountain Room a clamor and din which penetrated the thickness of
the padded doors that separated the dining-room from the kitchen
beyond. The sound rose and swelled above the blare of the
orchestra. Chairs scraped on the marble floor as hundreds rose to
their feet. The sound of clinking glasses became as the jangling
of a hundred bells. There came the sharp spat of hand-clapping,
then cheers, yells, huzzas.
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