Bagstock can't be
such-a-much. If I had any doubts they was knocked out by the sign hung
alongside the front door--"Furnished Rooms."
I expect it had been quite a decent old house in its day--one of these
full-width brick affairs, with fancy iron grill-work on either side of
the brownstone steps and a fan-light over the door. There was even an
old-fashioned bell-pull that was almost equal to a wall exerciser for
workin' up your muscle. I was still pumpin' away energetic, not
hearin' any results inside, when the door is jerked open, and a perky
young female with the upper part of her face framed in kid curlers and
a baby-blue boudoir cap glares at me unpleasant.
"Humph!" says she. "Tryin' to play 'Rag-Time Temple Bells,' are you?"
"Then I did register a tinkle, did I?" says I.
"Tinkle! More like a riot call," says she. "Want to look at rooms?"
"Not exactly," says I. "You see, I'm representin'--"
"Are you?" she crashes in crisp. "Well, say, you fresh agents are
goin' to overwork this comedy cut-up act with our bell one of these
times. Go on. Shoot it. What you want to wish on us--instalment
player-piano, electric dish-washer, magazine subscriptions, or--"
"Excuse me," I cuts in, producin' the letter; "but, while you're a
grand little guesser, your start is all wrong.
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