"Shly charge it to your room or juh wanna pay cash?"
"I mean--what was it you called me?"
She glanced at the card. "Mallory. That's what the card here says,
an'----"
He snatched it brusquely from her hand. "Wrong card," he snapped
making an effort to appear as though he were making an effort to appear
unembarrassed. "Here's my card. You may charge it to Suite F."
He whirled and moved away, his manner denoting extreme irritation. The
rather fullblown young lady stared after him. "Now ain't he the pussy's
ankle?" she murmured reflectively. "Gets sore because he slips me the
wrong card. That ain't nothin' to get peeved about." An assistant
manager drifted toward her counter. "Say, Gus--who's the flossy bird
with the gray thatch which just rambled away from here?"
The young gentleman shrugged. "I got worries of my own, Susie. What's
the matter--he been trying to date you up?"
"No. But he ordered a corsage sent up to some female an' he slipped
me the wrong card. I looks on the card an' reads the name an' I says
'Shly charge it to your room, Mr. Mallory?' an' with that he like to
of bit my head off. He just about gives me the bum's rush gettin' that
pasteboard which he tears up right away. Then he slips me this one--Mr.
Thomas Matlock Braden--I don't see nothing to get excited about just
because he slips me the wrong pasteboard, d'you? What difference does
it make to me if his name's Thomas Braden or Jared Mallory or what
it is. I reckon neither of them handles is gonna start no war--Say!
Gus--for the love of Mike, what's eatin' you? If you feel like that
you'd ought to see a Doc."
The ninth assistant manager put out a delicately restraining hand.
"Jared Mallory?" he said half to himself.