"All right," assented Dick. "Only I guess you might have had to wait until you came out of the hospital. It was your own fault. Will he be all right with you?" he asked of the baggage man, referring to Grit.
"Oh, yes, he and I are good friends. I was in another part of the car, making out some records, or I'd have stopped that young idiot from pinching his tail. But he got all that was coming to him. He was mighty scared. I thought it best to send for you, though."
"That was right. Grit, old man, I can't blame you, but try and hold yourself in," said Dick, patting his pet.
The dog whined, and licked his master's hands, and then, having made sure that Grit and the baggageman would get along well together, Dick left his pet, having brought him some water, and bound up the cut on his neck with a spare handkerchief.
Grit whined lonesomely as Dick left, and the young millionaire called back:
"It'll only be a little while now, old fellow. We'll soon be at the hotel."
Grit's joy was unbounded when he was released from the car, and soon with his master, and the latter's two chums, was speeding across New York in a taxicab. Arrangements were made at the hotel to have Grit cared for, and he was to be allowed in Dick's room at certain times during the day, the young millionaire having ascertained that no nervous old ladies were near enough to be annoyed.
"And now for the auto show!" exclaimed Dick after dinner that night. "We'll make a preliminary survey, and see what we can find."
Madison Square Garden was a brilliant place, with the thousands of electric lights, the glittering cars and the decorative scheme, which was unusually elaborate that year.
"Say, this is great!" gasped Beeby, as the three entered through the crowd at the doors.