"You ought to see the flier a friend of mine has got. A Mercury Six with a limousine top like a grand-opera box."
"Your—your—friend?"
"Yes. He's that slick-looking, little fat fellow that's a cousin to Mamie Grant up in the ready-to-wears. He was down here talking to me the other day."
"I seen him."
"Gee! you ought to feel yourself in his Mercury Six. 'Lemme die,' I says to him the last time I was in it. 'Just lemme close my eyes right in here and die happy,' I says, cuddled up in the red-leather seat with a cornucopia of daffodils tickling my nose and a street-car full of strap-hangers riding along-side of us."
"I—I guess if you got swell friends like that, a boat excursion down the river 'ain't got much of a sound for you."
"He says he's got a launch in summer—"
"Honest, Miss Sadie, I—I just been trying for the better part of two weeks to ask permission if I could come and call on you some evening, Miss Sadie, but—"
"Whoops! ain't he the daredevil!"
"The first boat of the season, Miss Sadie, a swell new one they call the White Gull, goes down to Coney to-night, and, it being real springtime, and you feeling kind of full of it, I thought maybe, it being the first boat of the season, maybe you would take a river ride this grand April night, Miss Sadie."