If you can imagine a man so tall that he has to close up like a jackknife in order to get into a [[153]]regular-size bed, that is Mr. Rufus Tomlinson, who shares the ownership of the Tutter hotel with his son, Mr. Charley Tomlinson. And he is about three points skinnier than an underweight toothpick. In our Halloween parades he usually takes the part of Uncle Sam. That is how he got his nickname.
Realizing that the sooner I located young Gennor the better for our purpose, I came quickly into the small lobby, squinting here and there.
“Where have you got him hid?” I inquired, as a starter.
“Heh?” said Uncle Sam, scrooching and craning his neck.
“I heard he was in town,” I said. “So I came on the run to take a squint at him.”
“Take a squint at who?”
“Felix Gennor, Jr.,” I returned, “the wonderful boy millionaire from Chicago.”
Uncle Sam’s face went sort of screwed up.
“Um …” he mumbled, meditative-like. “Didn’t know Mr. Gennor was a millionaire. Mebby I ought to ‘a’ put him in the bridal soot.”
I pretended surprise.