"We're looking for something called the Golden Mouse," Rick said. "Can you tell us where it is?"
The Sikh considered. Then he shook his head. "Not know of that one, sir. Not hear."
"Maybe one of the bank officers would know," Scotty suggested. They stepped back inside the bank and approached a thin young Britisher who wore tweeds in spite of the heat of the day.
Rick put the question to him. The Englishman looked blank. "Golden Mouse, you say? Dashed if I ever heard of it. Is it supposed to be a tourist place do you know?"
"We don't know," Rick answered. "We've no idea."
The young man's face expanded in a pleased smile. "Don't suppose you'd consider substituting a pink rabbit? We have a restaurant of that name. Haw!"
Rick hid a grin. "Very kind of you," he said. "I'm afraid my friend and I are allergic to rabbit fur."
With a perfectly straight face, Scotty added, "Haw!"
The young Englishman shook with laughter. "You know, that's really very good," he said. "Allergic to rabbit fur! Very good! I'm sorry, fellows, but I'm afraid I can't help locate your Golden Mouse. Why not try a bobby?"
"Bobby sox or bobby pin?" Scotty asked.