I made a pitiful attempt to protect my dignity.  “Mr. Carpenter has just arrived,” I began—­

“Just arrived, hey?” said the critic.  “Oviparous, viviparous, or oviviparous?” He raised his hand; actually, in the glory of his wit, he was going to clap the stranger on the shoulder!

But his hand stayed in the air.  Such a look as came on Carpenter’s face!  “Hush!” he commanded.  “Be silent!” And then:  “Any man will join in laughter; but who will join in disease?”

“Hey?” said Rosythe; and it was my turn to grin.

“Mr. Carpenter has just done me a great service,” I explained.  “I got badly mauled in the mob—­”

“Oh!” cried the other.  “At the Excelsior Theatre!” Here was something to talk about, to cover his bewilderment.  “So you were in it!  I was watching them just now.”

“Are they still at it?”

“Sure thing!”

“A fine set of boobs,” I began—­

“Boobs, nothing!” broke in the other.  “What do you suppose they’re doing?”

“Saving us from Hun propaganda, so they told me.”

“The hell of a lot they care about Hun propaganda!  They are earning five dollars a head.”

“What?”

“Sure as you’re born!”

“You really know that?”

“Know it?  Pete Dailey was at a meeting of the Motion Picture Directors’ Association last night, and it was arranged to put up the money and hire them.  They’re a lot of studio bums, doing a real mob scene on a real location!”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” I said.  “And what about the police?”

“Police?” laughed the critic.  “Would you expect the police to work free when the soldiers are paid?  Why, Jesus Christ——­”

“I beg pardon?” said Carpenter.

“Why—­er—­” said Rosythe; and stopped, completely bluffed.

“You ought not swear,” I remarked, gravely; and then, “I must explain.  I got pounded by that mob; I was knocked quite silly, and this gentleman found me, and healed me in a wonderful way.”

“Oh!” said the critic, with genuine interest.  “Mind cure, hey?  What line?”

I was about to reply, but Carpenter, it appeared, was able to take care of himself.  “The line of love,” he answered, gently.

“See here, Rosythe,” I broke in, “I can’t stand on the street.  I’m beginning to feel seedy again.  I think I’ll have a taxi.”

“No,” said the critic.  “Come with me.  I’m on the way to pick up the missus.  Right around the corner—­a fine place to rest.”  And without further ado he took me by the arm and led me along.  He was a good-hearted chap inside; his rowdyisms were just the weapons of his profession.  We went into an office building, and entered an elevator.  I did not know the building, or the offices we came to.  Rosythe pushed open a door, and I saw before me a spacious parlor, with birds of paradise of the female sex lounging in upholstered chairs.  I was led to a vast plush sofa, and sank into it with a sigh of relief.