Sinfully Rich

As noon approached, Mike Speedon cleared his desk preparatory to
leaving his office in the Recorder-Press Building. It was a very small
office, but the fact that he had an office of his own testified to his
importance on the premises. He was usually called Society Reporter,
which he didn't like; "Social Commentator" or "Columnist" pleased him
better. His column was more and more widely syndicated and he had
become a big figure in the smart life of the town and, in fact, of the
nation. And nobody knew it better than Mike himself. He didn't have to
keep office hours any more, but he attended every morning from nine to
twelve because of what he called his Puritan conscience. In other
respects he was not exactly a Puritan.

The telephone rang and he picked up the instrument. It was Warner
Bassett, City Editor. Hearing the silky quality in Warner's voice, Mike
frowned; around the shop he wanted to be treated as one of the gang.
Since he had become a "feature" on the paper, Mike was no longer under
Bassett's direct control.

"Hi, Mike! Stop by a moment on your way out, will you?"

"Sure!" said Mike, thinking: What the hell does he want of me?
Something I don't want to do, that's certain.

As he picked up his hat, he considered his engagements for the day; 1
P.M., lunch with Peggy Rhinelander _et al._ at the Colony; a dull bunch
but the food would be good; ought to be able to get away by 2:30. Then
home for a good sleep. This afternoon nap was Mike's secret. He posed
as a superman who didn't require more than three hours' sleep in the
twenty-four. 5 P.M. cocktails at the Alexanders'; 6 would be plenty of
time to get there. Half an hour was enough for the Alexanders. Must
look in at Mrs. Overton's afterwards; that woman had the commanding eye
of a rising star. Home to dress; 8 P.M., Sloan dinner at the St. Regis;
big bow-wows; wear the jeweled gardenia and Inverness cape. Get away in
time to look in at Gilbert Miller's first night before the show let
out; then a quick round of Jack and Charlie's; Stork Club; El Morocco.
Promised to join the Paley's party at 12:30. And at 1:30 ... Paradise!
Mike smiled to himself. No danger of forgetting _that_!

He passed through the littered city room and into Warner's enclosure in
the corner. Warner, keen, gray-faced, chewing an unlighted cigar, was
the picture of a city editor. He was only a year or two older than
Mike. Looking up at the latter's fresh complexion he asked sourly:

"What time did you get to bed this morning?"

"Somewhere around three-thirty."

"How the hell do you keep it up?"

"It's a gift."

"Yeah, a gift," said Warner bitterly. "Christ! you have it soft! Look
at me! Look at all the boys here! It takes this whole damn manure pile
to produce one perfect blossom like you! You stink like a gardenia!"

There was no unfriendliness in this, and Mike merely grinned. "Sure!
But you didn't ask me here to talk about the flowers. What...?"

"Mrs. Charles Warrington Ware is going to conduct a hay ride up
Broadway at midnight tonight," said Warner abruptly. "I've just been
tipped off."

"Sure you've been tipped off. And every other newspaper in town. Why
else give a hay ride?"

"You're supposed to be a friend of hers," said Warner.

Mike said nothing.

"Have you been invited on this hay ride?"

"I have."

"Are you going?"

"Can you see me?"

"No," grumbled Warner, "but I don't know the requirements of your job.
I reckon you have to pay for your fun one way or another."

"I'm getting to the point where I can pick and choose," said Mike.
"I've got better copy for my column than old Flora Ward's hay ride."