Boogles eyed the sleeping manager.

“I struck it fine to-night, Jimmie!” he whispered.  Jimmie mutely questioned.  “Got a whole case note.  You know that guy over to the newspaper office—­the one that’s such a tank drama—­he had to send a note up to a girl in a show that he couldn’t be there.”

“That tank drama?  Sure, I know him.  He kids me every time he’s stewed.”

“He kids me, too, something fierce; and he give me the case note.”

“Them strong arms’ll cop it on you when they get here,” warned Jimmie.

“Took my collar off and hid her on the inside of it.  Oh, I know tricks!”

“Chee!  You’re all to the Wall Street!”

“I got to look out for my stepmother, too.  She’d crown me with a chair if she thought I held out on her.  Beans me about every day just for nothing anyway.”

“Don’t you stand for it!”

“Yah!  All right for you to talk.  You’re the lucky guy.  You’re an orphan.  S’pose you had a stepmother!  I wish I was an orphan.”

Jimmie swelled with the pride of orphanship.

“Yes; I’d hate to have any parents knocking me round,” he said.  “But if it ain’t a stepmother then it’s somebody else that beans you.  A guy in this burg is always getting knocked round by somebody.”

“Read some more of the novel,” pleaded Boogles, to change the distressing topic.

Jimmie drew a tattered paper romance from the pocket of his faded coat and pushed the cap back from his seamed old forehead.  It went back easily, having been built for a larger head than his.  He found the place he had marked at the end of his previous half-hour with literature.  Boogles leaned eagerly toward him.  He loved being read to.  Doing it himself was too slow and painful: 

“‘No,’ said our hero in a clear, ringing voice; ’all your tainted gold would not keep me here in the foul, crowded city.  I must have the free, wild life of the plains, the canter after the Texas steers, and the fierce battles with my peers.  For me the boundless, the glorious West!’”

“Chee!  It must be something grand—­that wild life!” interrupted Boogles.  “That’s the real stuff—­the cowboy and trapper on them peraries, hunting bufflers and Injuns.  I seen a film—­”

Jimmie Time frowned at this.  He did not like interruptions.  He firmly resumed the tale: 

“With a gesture of disdain our hero waved aside the proffered gold of the scoundrelly millionaire and dashed down the stairway of the proud mansion to where his gallant steed, Midnight, was champing at the hitching post.  At that moment—­”

Romance was snatched from the hands of Jimmie Time.  The manager towered above him.

“Ain’t I told you guys not to be taking up the company’s time with them novels?” he demanded.  He sternly returned to his big chair behind the railing, where he no less sternly took up his own perusal of the confiscated tale.