Forsyte's Retreat Part 3

The barelegged minion tried, but as he climbed up on the edge of the trampoline s.e.xtus bounced and kicked out with accuracy and determination. The policeman sprawled back clutching air, and the crowd roared.

One more bounce and a half twist, now. s.e.xtus soared up, up, and his hands touched the sill.

With the agility of desperation he clawed up and through the paneless window.

"You don't know what you are doing," the old man screeched. "Stay here and you'll be famous. If you go back it is to oblivion. Oblivion! Very, well, _go_ back! _Go_ back, you--you nonent.i.ty!"

"You bet," s.e.xtus panted to himself and tumbled onto the carpeted fourth floor hallway of the Mahoney-Plaza hotel.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Instantly, another voice, but without accent, accosted him shrilly from down the hall. "You, there. You mister manager." s.e.xtus sighed mightily with relief. It was only Miss Genevieve Hafner holding a pimply-faced, red-haired youth by the ear.

True, Gary Gable and two hair-pulling, female starlets bore down right behind her, and rooms along both sides of the corridor were disgorging eddies of indignant displaced persons.

But these were things he understood. These were just beefs. Somewhat more involved than usual, but nothing much worse than a full-fledged convention at mid-night.

He adjusted his mashed carnation, brushed the crumbles of old brick dust from his morning coat and moved into the fray.

"Now, now, Miss Hafner! _What_ are you up to _this_ time?"