“Well, there are a lot of Whitlocks on Whitney Avenue.”
Seeing a New Haven directory, Bert pulled it down and began feverishly to consult its pages. He stood aghast. There surely were a “lot” of Whitlocks on Whitney Avenue. He tried to recall the first name of his hostess.
“Marcus, Marcellene, what in the deuce was it? Seems to me it began with an M!”
But there were no Whitlocks on the avenue whose first names began with M. He looked for 113, 131, 213, and 231, and everything else he could find with the combinations of the figures 1 and 3. When he had done this he consulted his watch. The time was eight-thirty, and the dinner was to be given at eight.
“I’m up against it!” he groaned, while the perspiration began to pour out on his face. “Mrs. Whitlock told me personally that she wanted me to be there, and it doesn’t help the matter to think that she wanted the mandolin worse than she did me. They depended on me chiefly for their music, and here am I and the mandolin lost in the deserts of New Haven, with not an oasis in sight.”
Then he attacked the directory again, emerging from its pages more confused than ever. He even began to think that perhaps Mrs. Marcellene Whitlock did not live on Whitney, but on some other thorough-fare, which he had somehow got inexplicably mixed with that of the well-known avenue.
“I’ll begin to think soon that perhaps the name wasn’t Whitlock, and that mine isn’t Dashleigh!”
He slammed down the directory and hurried into the street.
Fortunately, he found a cab there.
“Take me to all the Whitlocks on Whitney Avenue,” he begged. “And be quick about it.”