§2
And he was right. There was more than enough. It was nine o'clock that night when the cellar door of Mr. Braddy's small house opened cautiously, and Mr. Braddy followed his stub nose into the moonlight. Mr. Lum, unsteady but gay, followed.
Mr. Braddy, whose customary pace was a slow, dignified waddle, immediately broke into a brisk trot.
"Doan' go so fas', Hoo," called Mr. Lum, for they had long since reached the first-name stage.
"Gotta get to city, N'Yawk, b'fore it's too late," explained Mr. Braddy, reining down to a walk.
"Too late for what, Hoo?" inquired Mr. Lum.
"I dunno," said Mr. Braddy.
They made their way, by a series of skirmishes and flank movements, to the subway station, and caught a train for Manhattan. Their action in doing this was purely automatic.
Once aboard, they began a duet, which they plucked out of the dim past:
"Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers!"