"Say, Mr.Munsberg," Tembarom broke forth, "you're giving me just what I wanted to ask you for.I'm the new up-town society reporter for the Sunday Earth, and I came in here to see if you wouldn't help me to get a show at finding out who was going to have weddings and society doings.I didn't know just how to start."Munsberg gave a sort of grunt.He looked less amiable.
"I s'pose you're used to nothin' but Fift' Avenoo," he said.
Tembarom grinned exactly at the right time again.Not only his good teeth grinned, but his eyes grinned also, if the figure may be used.
"Fifth Avenue!" he laughed."There's been no Fifth Avenue in mine.
I'm not used to anything, but you may bet your life I'm going to get used to Harlem, if you people'll let me.I've just got this job, and I'm dead stuck on it.I want to make it go.""He's mighty different from Biker," said Mrs.Munsberg in an undertone.
"Vhere's dod oder feller?" inquired Munsberg."He vas a dam fool, dot oder feller, half corned most de time, an' puttin' on Clarence airs.
No one was goin' to give him nothin'.He made folks mad at de start.""I've got his job," said Tembarom, "and if I can't make it go, the page will be given up.It'll be my fault if that happens, not Harlem's.There's society enough up-town to make a first-class page, and I shall be sick if I can't get on to it."He had begun to know his people.Munsberg was a good- natured, swaggering little Hebrew.
That the young fellow should make a clean breast of it and claim no down-town superiority, and that he should also have the business insight to realize that he might obtain valuable society items from such a representative confectioner as M.Munsberg, was a situation to incite amiable sentiments.
"Vell, you didn't come to de wrong place," he said."All de biggest things comes to me, an' I don't mind tellin' you about 'em.'T ain't goin' to do no harm.Weddings an' things dey ought to be wrote up, anyhow, if dey're done right.It's good for business.Vy don't dey have no pictures of de supper- tables? Dot'd be good.""There's lots of receptions and weddings this month," said Mrs.
Munsberg, becoming agreeably excited."And there's plenty handsome young girls that'd like their pictures published.
"None of them have been in Sunday papers before, and they'd like it.
The four Schwartz girls would make grand pictures.They dress splendid, and their bridesmaids dresses came from the biggest place in Fift' Avenoo.""Say," exclaimed Tembarom, rising from his chair, "I'm in luck.Luck struck me the minute I turned in here.If you'll tell me where Schwartz lives, and where the hall is, and the church, and just anything else I can use, I'll go out and whoop up a page to beat the band." He was glowing with exultation."I know I can do it.You've started me off."Munsberg and his wife began to warm.It was almost as though they had charge of the society page themselves.There was something stimulating in the idea.There was a suggestion of social importance in it.They knew a number of people who would be pleased with the prospect of being in the Sunday Earth.They were of a race which holds together, and they gave not only the names and addresses of prospective entertainers, but those of florists and owners of halls where parties were given.
Mrs.Munsberg gave the name of a dressmaker of whom she shrewdly guessed that she would be amiably ready to talk to a society-page reporter.
"That Biker feller," she said, "got things down all wrong.He called fine white satin 'white nun's-veiling,' and he left out things.Never said nothing about Miss Lewishon's diamond ring what her grandpa gave her for a wedding-present.An' it cost two hundred and fifty.""Well, I'm a pretty big fool myself," said Tembarom, "but I should have known better than that."When he opened the door to go, Mrs.Munsberg called after him:
"When you get through, you come back here and tell us what you done.
I'll give you a cup of hot coffee."
He returned to Mrs.Bowse's boarding-house so late that night that even Steinberger and Bowles had ended their day.The gas in the hall was turned down to a glimmering point, and the house was silent for the night.Even a cat who stole to him and rubbed herself against his leg miauwed in a sort of abortive whisper, opening her mouth wide, but emitting no sound.When he went cautiously up the staircase he carried his damp overcoat with him, and hung it in company with the tartan muffler close to the heater in the upper hall.Then he laid on his bedside table a package of papers and photographs.
After he had undressed, he dropped heavily into bed, exhausted, but elate.
"I'm dog-tired," he said, "but I guess I've got it going." And almost before the last word had uttered itself he fell into the deep sleep of worn-out youth.