Life in Large Cities
The grill-room of the Jazza. Anthony seated. Enter Richard Caramel. In person short, in pocket shorter. His figure is round—he is always round where Anthony is buying drinks.
Anthony: Hello, Caramel, old sweet!
Dick: Thanks, I will.
Anthony: Waiter! Two double Dacharis in tea cups and four more to follow.
Dick: Sounds to me!
Anthony: Pour it down, beardless boy! How many can you hold?
Dick: Don’t know—never had enough.
Anthony: Waiter! two dozen quadruple Dacharis in bath-tubs. Who’s the luscious débutante across the room?
Dick: My cousin, Gloria Goodle, the Speed Girl from Kansas City.
Anthony: No!
Dick: Yes! These short lines are lifesavers, aren’t they?
Anthony: Indeed. Also this dialogue stuff—so snappy. What were we talking about?
Dick: Gloria Goodle.
Anthony: Oh, yes——
Dick: The Speed Girl from Kansas City.
Anthony: Aren’t we nearly at the bottom of the page?
Dick: Yes, turn over.
Anthony: Your cousin?
Dick: Want to meet her?
Anthony: Gloria who?
Dick: Goodle.
Anthony: Funny name.
Dick: Funny girl.
Anthony: What’s her line?
Dick: Legs.
Anthony: Whose?
Dick: Her own.
Anthony: My God! lead me to her!
Dick: Come on.
Anthony: Wait a minute. I’ve got something on my mind.
Dick: Get it off before you meet Gloria.
Anthony: Suppose I were an Athenian—too proud to be enigmatic, too supple to eventuate, too incongruous to ratify, too courageous to adorn—
Dick: Cut it! Suppose you were an author too young to be wise, too self-sufficient to learn, too impatient to wait, too successful to stop—that’s the kind of bunk you’d write.