"Hot damn!" he exclaimed, after a pause. "Have I been on a drunk! You know, Ponto, I dreamed that I was you and if there's anything in dreams I bet I'm the only Republican in Westchester County that ever married a brindle bitch named Buglebell.
"Let's see," he continued. "Where were we? Earlier today I went to the Pond Club and had a couple of drinks. How in hell do I find myself here? I must have drawn one hell of a blank, Ponto, the damndest blank I've ever drawn in my life."
His eyes looked down on the seat beside us, where I had left a copy of the morning New York Times.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "That's funny. Here it is. Good Lord! the twenty-fifth of April! So I've been out for three weeks. That is a blank to end all blanks."
He whistled tunelessly between his teeth. Then he cast a glance toward the back seat, where my suitcase rested.
"What gives," he inquired. "I'm not leaving home, for God's sake? Ponto, old boy, you just stick by me and we'll go back to the house and see what this is all about."
"Yes," I barked at him.
"That's a good dog," he said affably. "That's a good Ponto."
He backed the Packard into the driveway that had been my nemesis and turned the car around.
As we approached the house he slowed the car to a dead stop.