Which shows just how far behind the bass-drum I am. Rupert tells me the different places where he's unloaded his pieces, most of 'em for real money. Also, I pumps out of him how he came to get into the game. Seems he'd been roomin' down in old Greenwich Village; just happened to drift in among them long-haired men and short-haired girls. It turns out that the book was a little enterprise that was being backed by Mrs. Mumford. Yes, it's that kind of a book--so much down in advance to the Grafter Press. You know, Mrs. Mumford always did fall for Rupert, and after she's read one of his sea spasms in a magazine she don't lose any time huntin' him out and renewin' their cruise acquaintance. A real poet! Say, I can just see her playin' that up among her friends. And when she finds he's mixin' in with all those dear, delightful Bohemians, she insists that Rupert tow her along too. From then on it was a common thing for her and Rupert to go browsin' around among them garlic and red-ink joints, defyin' ptomaines and learnin' to braid spaghetti on a fork. That was her idea of life. She hires an apartment right off Washington Square and moves in from Montclair for the winter. She begun to have what she called her "salon evenings," when she collected any kind of near-celebrity she could get. Mr. Vinton Bartley was generally one of the favored guests. I didn't need any second sight, either, to suspect that Vinton was sort of crowdin' in on this little romance of Rupert's. And by eggin' Rupert along judicious I got the whole tale. Seems it had been one of Mrs. Mumford's ambitions to spring Rupert on an unsuspectin' public. Her idea is to have Rupert called on, some night at the Purple Pup, to step up to the head of the long table and give one of his sea songs. She'd picked Vinton to do the callin'. And Vinton had balked. "But say," says I, "is this Vinton gent the only one of her friends that's got a voice? Why not pick another announcer?" "I'm sure I don't know," says Rupert. "She--she hasn't mentioned the subject recently." "Oh!" says I. "Too busy listenin' to the voice of the viper, eh?" Rupert nods and stares sad into his empty demi-tasse. And, say, when Rupert gets that way he's an appealin' cuss. "See here, Rupert," says I; "if you got a call of that kind, would you come to the front and make a noise like a real poet?" "Why," says he, "I suppose I ought to. It would help the sale of the book, and perhaps----" "One alibi is enough," I breaks in. "Now, another thing: How'd you like to have me stage-manage this debut of yours?" "Oh, would you?" says he, beamin'. "Providin' you'll follow directions," says I. "Why, certainly," says Rupert. "Any suggestions that you may make----" "Then we'll begin right now," says I. "You are to ditch that flossy floor-walker outfit of yours from this on." "You mean," says Rupert, "that I am not to wear these clothes?"