Armstrong sought a card which he passed over to Paul. Then he changed the subject: Say, do you know the ropes?
What ropes, John?
Well, for examp, the bars. Two floors up and knock three times and there's a drink for you . . . after you've been introduced.
Two floors up where?
Any damned building below Chambers Street. Say, I'll put you wise to something else, Armstrong added darkly. Look out for stenographers.
Do they belong to the Ku Klux? Paul demanded, smiling.
Worse. The cuties sit on your lap and invite you by their willing manner to take them out to dinner, and first thing you know along comes a shyster lawyer with a breach of promise blackmailing prospectus.
Whew! Paul exclaimed, not incredulous.
Sure. Cupid's been stung several times.
His name never gets into the papers.
Sure it doesn't, John Armstrong explained with some disgust. He fixes it up. Last time cost him thirty-five thous. Say, it would have paid him to stick to moving-picture stars. Zimbule O'Grady let him off easy. He's a heel when it comes to skirts. I never get caught myself, but then, he added, the Janes are crazy about me. Nuts, he emphasized, plain nuts over your Uncle John.
