The news seemed further to depress Flick. He contemplated the shining plate with deep commiseration, shaking his head.
“All right. Sorry—mighty sorry. Felt that right off about you. Fact! Shake—shake hands.”
Tootles watched Flick, a little maudlin, silently offer his hand to King O’Leary, who took it glumly and abruptly arose as though shaking off a leaden weight, saying:
“Well, I’ve had enough of this place. Beat it again.”
They began to wander, east and west, up-town and down-town, seeking memory’s oblivion, finding it always dogging their heels—a rapid, confused passage through lighted restaurants and noisy cafés, with momentary junctions in casual parties. They ended up in an all-night restaurant, where King O’Leary took possession of the piano, Tootles conducting the orchestra, while Flick, with pompous dignity, singled out the fattest and oldest ladies and made them a bow, saying with terrific dignity:
“Madam, will you accord me the honor of this dance? No? I am sorry—very sorry, but thank you, thank you perfectly jus’ same.”
Tootles, finally, in the wee hours, coaxed them back to the Arcade (after many a slip), and woke up Sassafras, whose fee for such gala performances was half a dollar. But on the threshold of the elevator King O’Leary suddenly remembered the alarming ascent of the afternoon and hastily imparted the information to Flick, saying:
“Wouldn’t have it harm a hair of your head, not a hair. Understand? Like you, boy. No harm!”
“Must be careful, very careful,” said Flick solemnly. “Won’t stand great strain, see? That’s the idea.”
“I see,” said King O’Leary, “but how?”