“Not if he lives on Madison Avenyer,” said her new friend. “What’s his number? I got a cousin that married a man in Harlem. She lives on Madison Avenyer; but it’s a long ways up town.”
“Why, Uncle Starkweather has his home at the same number on Madison Avenue that is on that fanlight,” and Helen pointed over the door.
“Then he’s some swell; eh?”
“I—I guess so,” admitted Helen, doubtfully.
“D’jer jest come to town?”
“Yes.”
“And told the taxi driver to come down here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’ll take you back. I’ll take the number of the cab and scare him pretty near into a fit,” said the black-eyed girl, laughing. “Then he’s sure to take you right to your uncle’s house.”
“Oh, I’m a thousand times obliged!” cried Helen. “I am a tenderfoot; am I not?” and she laughed.