“I beg your pardon!” he managed to stammer, then dived for the outer air, picking up his hat, coat, and mandolin as he ran.
The cab was a third of a block away, but it stopped in answer to the bellowing hail which he gave as he jumped down the steps, and turned round and drove back.
“Wasn’t the place!” said Bert, in some confusion, as he met the cab. “We’ll have to make another try. It was a Whitney—no, I mean a Whitlock where the party is that I am trying to reach. That was Warlock’s.”
“I told you it was Warlock’s.”
“I know you did. Take me to a Whitney Avenue of Whitlocks, I mean to a Whitlock’s of Whitney Avenue.”
He looked at his watch again and saw that the hour was nearly nine.
“Heavens! I won’t dare to tell Dick of this!” he thought, as he again stowed himself in the cab.
The driver took Bert to the first Whitlock’s of that avenue, and it was not the place.
“Go right ahead,” Bert commanded, as he descended from his fruitless search. “We’ve got to find that old number, if it’s in New Haven. I’m going to swear off on accepting invitations for myself and the mandolin after this.”
The cab tore away again, finally stopping in front of a house which Bert felt sure could not be the place.