“Where’s that?” the driver asked, turning a helpless expression upon him.
“Why,—you drive to the Hotel Astor, and then just keep on driving up to the roof.” Steve spoke sweetly, considerately, as one might to a child, then climbed in and banged the door.
“Just for that, he’ll go the long way around,” Harry complained, peering out at the meter as they started off.
“You have such cheap ideas, Harry!” said Dave. “Jerry knows us, of course; but I was going to make Miss Nelson think we were millionaires.”
“Never mind—we’ll make the waiters at the Astor think we’re millionaires. Not in the obvious way! But by the good old method of gas. What do you say—are you game, Jerry?”
“The waiters don’t listen the way they used to,” Jerry objected.
“Oh, you haven’t been around with us for some time! Look here; I—-I’ll be the Western magnate; I’ve got a whacking black cigar I’ve been keeping just for this. Jerry, you look as though you could have come from most anywhere; you’ll be my wife, and I probably picked you up in some mining camp while I was getting rich, or something. See? Act with that as a background. We’re the recent rich, that want anything that’s high-priced or has a fancy name. Get it?”
“And I,” Steve contributed, “will be a New York crest-rider—gay young rounder—look down on you of course, but keen to wangle the contract out of you through this social means.”
“Contract! Oh, yes, there’s got to be a contract!”
“Cer-tain-ly. A million dollar one. We’ve got to make this party as doggy as possible. And Miss Nelson here can be my fiancée—I’ve dragged her along to impress her with my importance—you’ll be typical New York yearling, Miss Nelson, bored with anybody but your own set, bored with business, furious at me for bringing you, try to get all the men at the other tables to look at you, then turn ’em down with a haughty stare—you know.”