So I had to watch the Missus put away a glass of orange juice that cost forty cents and was just the same size as they give us for breakfast free for nothin'. And, not havin' had nothin' to make me forget that my feet hurt, I was obliged to pay another four bits for an Afromobile to cart us back to our own boardin' house.
"Well," says the Missus when we got there, "it's time to wash up and go to lunch."
"Wash up and go to lunch, then," I says; "but I'm goin' to investigate this here locker liquor or liquor locker law."
So she got her key and beat it, and I limped to the bar.
"I want a highball," I says to the boy.
"What's your number?" says he.
"It varies," I says. "Sometimes I can hold twenty and sometimes four or five makes me sing."
"I mean, have you got a locker here?" he says.
"No; but I want to get one," says I.
"The gent over there to the desk will fix you," says he.