“You don’t believe I’ve got a camel, do you?” said Wilder, with a hypnotic stare. “Come here.”
They went to the window and craned out. Below, in the street, surrounded by a swarm of newsboys, was indubitably a camel. Up to this moment, Tootles had remained incredulous. Now he began to feel a rising excitement. He scented trouble, and if there was anything he went to naturally, with enthusiasm, it was trouble. He liked to be in it, and he particularly liked to lead others therein.
“How about the cops,” he said, at once.
Wilder exhibited a permit.
“It’s a publicity dodge—see!” he explained. “New show at Coney. If I can make Times Square at five o’clock, a bunch of the boys are primed up for a big story.”
“Why don’t you ride him yourself,” said Tootles, in a last objection.
“I can’t. I’m too sober,” said Flick, with a discouraged shake of his head, as though to convey the idea that the day had been too short.
They descended to the sidewalk.
“How’ll I get up?” said Tootles, craning his neck.
This was a puzzler. Wilder reflected.