Besides, I don't want to live as long as Methuselah. If I did I'd have to learn to tango some time in the 875 years to come—then I'd be just the same as everybody else in the world.
Can you get a flash of Methuselah at the age of 64 taking Tango lessons from Baldy Sloane up at Weisenfeffer's pedal parlors? And then having to survive for 850 years with the dance bug in his dome!
Close the door, Delia; there's a draft.
When Peaches recovered from the shock of my outburst over the potato pudding she said the only way I could square myself was to take her to the very latest up-to-datest hotel in New York for dinner.
That is some task if you live up town, believe me, because they open new hotels in New York now the same as they open oysters—by the dozen.
However, after stuffing my pockets with all my earthly possessions, we hiked forth and steered for the Builtfast—the very latest thing in expensive beaneries.
Directly we entered its polished portals we could see from the faces of the clerks and the clocks that a lot of money changed hands before the Builtfast finally became an assessment center.
In the lobby the furniture was covered with men about town, who sat around with a checkbook in each hand and made faces at the cash register.
There are more bellboys than bedrooms in the hotel. They use them for change. Every time you give the cashier $15 he hands you back $1.50 and six bellboys.
We took a peep at the diamond-backed dining-room, and when I saw the waiters refusing everything but certified checks in the way of a tip, I said to Peaches, "This is no place for us!" But she wouldn't let go, and we filed into the appetite killery.