"Never," I replied. "Wait until August—this is nothing."
"Is there no way we can ride?" he inquired at the end of an interminable block of noisy and dirty buildings.
"The cars don't take us where we want to go," I replied. "We can soon turn down Wintergreen Street, and then we are almost there."
Knowlton, by now, was signalling me to be careful, but I was having too much fun. "That is a model plant," I continued, like a cathedral guide. "It's the Deep Harbor Wrought Iron Works. I understand that their power plant holds the world's record for the number of pounds of water evaporated per pound of coal."
Knowlton made a noise which sounded very much like a suppressed snort. Mr. Ebling politely adjusted his pince-nez and gazed at the brick walls. A freight train, the engine spitting live cinders and greasy smoke, clanged up the street between us and the model plant. Mr. Ebling shook cinders from his light grey Fedora hat, and wiped smut from his eyes.
I took mercy upon him at this point and turned down a side street leading toward the residence section.
"Really," Mr. Ebling protested, as we came to Myrtle Boulevard, "I'm not presentable enough to lunch with your friends. Please tell me the way back to the hotel." I would not hear of this, so he again made such a toilet as he could with his handkerchief. I rang the bell at the Claybournes', and in we went. Mr. Ebling's affability returned at once. Mrs. Claybourne was gracious and Helen deliciously demure. She sensed a joke somewhere from my manner, but could not guess what it was. A cocktail made Mr. Ebling expand. I could see another opinion of Deep Harbor visibly forming itself in his mind.
"We've just come from the plant," I said, as we sat down.
"Then you transferred across town from the square," remarked Mrs. Claybourne.
"No, we walked," I interrupted hastily. "I wanted to point out some of our plants to Mr. Ebling."