"I want a marriage license, please," said Chester. He dropped his voice a full octave below his normal speaking-tone.
The minor politician blinked at Chester and Mildred. Then he guffawed, hoarsely.
"Say," he said, "in the foist place, you'll have to get a little more age on yuh, and in the second place, this is Satiddy and this joint closes at noon. Come back Thoisday between ten and four about eight years from now." He closed the door.
Chester turned miserably to Mildred.
"That means Hoboken," he said.
"I don't care," she said, "as long as I'm with you."
They went out into the canyons of lower Manhattan, in search of the way to Hoboken. Their wanderings took them past a restaurant whose windows were adorned with vicious-looking, green, live lobsters, scrambling about pugnaciously on cakes of ice.
"Oh, LOBSTERS," cried Mildred, her eye brightening. "I've only had lobster once in my life. Couldn't you just DIE eating lobster?"
"I suppose so," said Chester, gloomily.
"Couldn't we stop in and have a teeny, weeny bit of lunch?" she asked, eyeing the lobsters wistfully. "It makes me feel sort of queer to go on long trips without food."