So Mr. Withersq got to the point at last [61] ]and ordered the taxi to go to the Grand Palace, which he did.
When they got there Mr. Withersq stumped into the hall as he had had an idear.
“Trot me out the boss!” he cried to the trembling girl in the glass desk there and she ran for him.
When he came he was fat and red.
“I am the manager” he utered.
“So?” said Mr. Withersq knowing well that would make him feel small. “Well I am Mr. Withersq, my unckle Burt has left me many millions, I have my lady Selia with me, I am the Head Poet of the Land and I wish to rent your second and third floors all to myself one for me and one for her, as only the best will do for us.”
“You want two whole floors?” spat the red manager.
“I do” said Mr. Withersq.
“But what of those who are within the [62] ]floors?” said the manager who was very afraid by now.
“Tell them I will foot their bills” replyed Mr. Withersq “and ask no questions if they will get out.”