The Wildcat grabbed for the mascot's leading string. "You an' me declares peace. Ah done wrong when Ah drug you, but now see kin you ramble. Ah craves to reach de Chicago Fliah whah at de ol' Backslid Baptis' is porter, so us kin leave town without leadin' no mob."
"Blaa!" Lily answered in forgiveness.
About the mascot's chest the Wildcat adjusted the O.D. shirt with its three service stripes. He tilted the little overseas cap which Lily wore to a rakish angle between the mascot's horns.
With Lily clicking along at the Wildcat's heels, the pair entered the portals of the Grand Central Station.
The Wildcat accosted a Red Cap of his own colour. "Whah at kin I find de Backslid Baptist whut takes care o' de white gen'men on de Chicago Fliah 'at leaves at 2:40?"
"I knows 'at boy dey calls Backslid, but dey ain't no Fliah leavin' at 2:40. 'At boy runs Pullman on de Panama Limited, leavin' heah at 10:10 tonight. Ol' Backslid neveh shows up till half-past nine to take his cah out."
Confronted by seven intervening hours of life in Memphis, which might include the release of Honey Tone Boone, whose temporary confinement in the jail had just been accomplished, the Wildcat's ambition flopped. His sole desire for the moment was for a high-grade segment of camouflage or the sanctuary of a close-fitting black cave.
"Whah at kin me an' Lily hide out till mah fren' Backslid shows up?"
The Red Cap looked at him. "What you done—outrun a bullet f'm some white man's gun, o' mebbe busted jail?"
The Wildcat's skin shrank a size or two at the mention of jail. "I ain't done nuthin'. Fo'git dem jail words. All I got is business in Chicago, an' I aims to ride wid de Baptist."