“That’s right,” Bertha said, turning to stick a bulldog jaw out at him. “The name’s Bertha Cool. Which way do we go, Donald?”
I led the way up to my room.
Bertha looked it over and said, “You seem to rate.”
“I do.”
“A nice place, Donald. He must have some dough tied up here.”
“I suppose he has.”
“It must be hell to be rich — not that I wouldn’t mind taking a fling at it. That reminds me, I’ve got some letters to write in connection with a couple of stocks. When’s Elsie coming back?”
“Two or three days,” I said.
“I’ve got two girls up there now,” Bertha said, “and neither one of them is worth a damn.”
“What’s the matter? Can’t they take shorthand?”