Bobo's limousine, the perfection of luxury and elegance, was waiting for them in front of the hotel. Bobo in silk hat, evening overcoat, fluffy white scarf, and white kids, with the inevitable yellow stick crooked over his arm enjoyed a wonderful moment standing on the top step of the Madagascar waiting for his car to pull up. He flicked the ash from his cigarette, and the humble pedestrians looked up admiringly.
It is not vouchsafed to many of us so completely to realize our dreams. Bobo's dream was based on the cigarette advertisements in color on the back covers of popular magazines. Jack, similarly attired, watched him with a twinkle from a respectful stand to the rear. In his enjoyment of the situation he was perfectly content to play a secondary part. It was lots more fun, he thought, to pull the wires from behind the scenes.
When they got in the car Jack gave the chauffeur an address on East 69th Street.
"What are we going to Yorkville for?" asked Bobo.
"To see an old friend."
"I hate to leave the white lights."
Bobo insisted on keeping the dome light burning. Jack suspected that the real reason his heart had been set on a limousine was that the wide windows afforded the populace every facility to see him pass in his glory.
They drew up before a cheap apartment house, one of a long row in an untidy street.
"Gee! what a crummy joint!" said Bobo fastidiously.
"It would have seemed plenty good enough yesterday," said Jack coldly.