I had to do a piece of writing so I grabbed up that paper
and let the fountain pen go crazy. I give the Kid's entire name, where
he was born, what his people did to fool the almshouse, what was his
mother's maiden name and why, whether he went to church or Billy
Sunday, was he white and could he prove it, who started the war and a
lot of bunk like that. The guy who doped out the entrance examinations
for that hospital must have been figurin' on how many he could keep
_out_. When I run out of ink, I took out a copy of the _Sportin'
Annual_, tore off the Kid's record and pasted it at the bottom of the
page.

"How's that?" I asks, passin' it over.

"Very well," he says, glancin' at it. "Mister Scanlan is in room 45.
That will be one-fifty--a hundred and fifty!"

"The price," I says, gettin' dizzy. "Not your weight!"

"That's the price," he tells me. "A hundred and fifty a week."

"I'm afraid the old bankroll is _too_ weak," I says,--"too weak for
that, anyhow. Drag the Kid out of that bridal suite and let him sleep
in the hall. I'll--"

"Why, the idea!" butts in Miss Vincent. "You let him stay where he is,
doctor. The money will be paid."

Before I could say anything, the door opens and in comes the dame that
poses for all the magazine covers, dressed like a nurse. I never was
much on describin'--I probably wouldn't have got ten people to watch
the battle of Gettysburg if I'd have been the press agent--but this was
the kind of dame that all the wealthy patients fall in love with in the
movies--yeh, and out of 'em! The little white cap on top of her head
looked like a dash of whipped cream on a peach sundae, and if you
wouldn't have blowed up the city hall for the smile she sent around the
room, I feel sorry for you. She crosses over and, in passin' me, she
begs my pardon and threw that smile into high.

A hundred and fifty a week, eh? Well--I dives in my inside pocket.

"May I have your check, Mister--eh--ah--" pipes the doc.

"Green," I helps him out, "Johnny Green. Can you have a _check_? You
said it!" I sits down and writes one out.

"Why this is for three hundred dollars!" he busts out, lookin' at it.

"Even so, brother," I grins, stealin' a slant at the Venus de
California. "That's for me and the Kid. Gimme a room next to his
and--"

"Do you think this is a hotel?" he frowns at me.

"I should care!" I tells him. "Let me in--that's all _I_ want!"

With that the nurse remarks that