«I'm hungry,» growled the Captain — «by the top sirloin of the Bull of Bashan, I'm starving to death. Right now I could eat a Bowery restaurant clear through to the stovepipe in the alley. Can't you think of nothing, Murray? You sit there with your shoulders scrunched up, giving an imitation of Reginald Vanderbilt driving his coach—what good are them airs doing you now? Think of some place we can get something to chew.»
«You forget, my dear Captain,» said Murray, without moving, «that our last attempt at dining was at my suggestion.»
«You bet it was,» groaned the Captain, «you bet your life it was. Have you got any more like that to make—hey?»
«I admit we failed,» sighed Murray. «I was sure Malone would be good for one more free lunch after the way he talked baseball with me the last time I spent a nickel in his establishment.»
«I had this hand,» said the Captain, extending the unfortunate member — «I had this hand on the drumstick of a turkey and two sardine sandwiches when them waiters grabbed us.»
«I was within two inches of the olives,» said Murray. «Stuffed olives. I haven't tasted one in a year.»
«What'll we do?» grumbled the Captain. «We can't starve.»
«Can't we?» said Murray quietly. «I'm glad to hear that. I was afraid we could.»
«You wait here,» said the Captain, rising, heavily and puffily to his feet. «I'm going to try to make one more turn. You stay here till I come back, Murray. I won't be over half an hour. If I turn the trick I'll come back flush.»
He made some elephantine attempts at smartening his appearance. He gave his fiery mustache a heavenward twist; he dragged into sight a pair of black–edged cuffs, deepened the crease in his middle by tightening his belt another hole, and set off, jaunty as a zoo rhinoceros, across the south end of the park.