CLANGINGHARP PAYS UP.

When Championoar and Padmarx tiptoed out of the elevator the three women were sitting on a bench in the hall waiting for Clangingharp. Padmarx sketched a mental cartoon of them, and with a nod at the bench and a funereal mandamus to silence, the lawyer led the way into the entry. Clangingharp let them in. He went on snapping studs into his shirt, and the callers sat down. Championoar put his fingers into his vacant waist-coat pocket and said it must be half-past eleven. Clangingharp said he couldn’t help that; it was every man’s privilege to get up when he pleased. Besides, how could he go to breakfast with Them out there? He drew on lavender trousers suspended with embroidered galluses.

“Now see here,” began Championoar, “I don’t want to make trouble for you, Strings, but this is my first case, and I’m going to recover or know the reason why. Friendship’s all right, and I haven’t forgotten the time you pulled me out of the river by the neck and nearly broke the neck. But a lawyer has to win cases.”

“Old man,” said Clangingharp, adjusting his necktie, “I’m proud to be your first defendant, and I wish you luck. I think your chances are mighty bad, but I wish you luck.”

Championoar said if every cent was not paid up to the first of the month before the next morning, Padmarx would print the story in The Evening Coat, with pictures of the women.

“You bet your upright piano I will,” said Padmarx, but Clangingharp said it wasn’t a piano, it was a folding bed.

Championoar said Clangingharp had no idea what he had been through trying to keep each of those women from knowing the others were attempting to collect alimony.

“Look here, Padmarx,” said Clangingharp, “buckle up this waist-coat, will you? Well, how in thunder did they all happen to go to you?”

“They didn’t,” said Championoar. “I went to them. The Knittenpin woman claims you never have paid her a dollar”——

“That’s just what I have paid her,” said the defendant, pulling on a patent leather boot.

“Which makes three hundred. The actress wants two hundred, and Volumnia”——

“Ah, sweet Volumnia!”

“Volumnia says she hasn’t had a cent from you in two months—that’s one hundred and fifty. Now what you going to do about it?”

Clangingharp buttoned up his Prince Albert coat and pinned a white rose-bud into his button-hole. Then he said he would have much money at noon, and would pay up before five. “Hold on, though. I never was married to the Knittenpin woman. She’s got her divorce like the rest—I swear I was never married to her. I’ll pay the others, but I’m damned if I pay the Knittenpin woman.”

“Nonsense,” said Championoar, “I was best man.”

“Were you?” said Clangingharp. “I’d forgotten. Very well, I’ll pay them all. Keep ’em there as long as you can. I go this way.”

He donned his silken tile and disappeared onto the fire-escape. They watched him climb by a hall window into the floor below, and then they heard the quick, impatient ring of the elevator bell.

Strings Clangingharp hastened to the corner drug store. Hermia Clinkplunks was pensively sipping soda water.

“Ah, punctual, my dear,” he whispered. “Did you get it?”

Looking fondly into his false face she handed him a small leathern bag and murmured, “Ten thousand.”

Clangingharp thankfully detached a $20 bill from the stacks in the bag and bought her a package of chewing gum. Then they went out and were married.

The Knittenpin woman, the Soubrette and Volumnia at last became hungry and made for the elevator. The bride was just getting out of it as they approached, and inquired, “Have you seen anything of Mr. Clangingharp?”

Frank W. Noxon.