?"

Bradford shuffled nervously. "I don't quite know. We never considered
such a--my God! Stop, man, stop. You'll change the whole course of
history! Stop him!"

The barelegged minion tried, but as he climbed up on the edge of the
trampoline Sextus bounced and kicked out with accuracy and
determination. The policeman sprawled back clutching air, and the crowd
roared.

One more bounce and a half twist, now. Sextus soared up, up, and his
hands touched the sill.

With the agility of desperation he clawed up and through the paneless
window.

"You don't know what you are doing," the old man screeched. "Stay here
and you'll be famous. If you go back it is to oblivion. Oblivion! Very,
well, _go_ back! _Go_ back, you--you nonentity!"

"You bet," Sextus panted to himself and tumbled onto the carpeted fourth
floor hallway of the Mahoney-Plaza hotel.

[Illustration]

Instantly, another voice, but without accent, accosted him shrilly from
down the hall. "You, there. You mister manager." Sextus sighed mightily
with relief. It was only Miss Genevieve Hafner holding a pimply-faced,
red-haired youth by the ear.

True, Gary Gable and two hair-pulling, female starlets bore down right
behind her, and rooms along both sides of the corridor were disgorging
eddies of indignant displaced persons.

But these were things he understood. These were just beefs. Somewhat
more involved than usual, but nothing much worse than a full-fledged
convention at mid-night.

He adjusted his mashed carnation, brushed the crumbles of old brick dust
from his morning coat and moved into the fray.

"Now, now, Miss Hafner! _What_ are you up to _this_ time?"

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Forsyte's Retreat, by Winston Marks

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