"You don't have to shout, old thing; I hear you," the English youth replied. "Yes, I have a suggestion. I've been meaning to see that United Nations display they have at Radio City. What say we go back to the hotel and clean up a bit? These blasted American shoes I bought yesterday are killing me."
Dawson started to shake his head, but instantly checked the movement. A gleam leaped into his eyes.
"Fair enough," he said. "I could do with a clean shirt myself. Come on. We'll take a cab."
During the cab ride across town to the hotel, they talked of this and that and nothing in particular. When the cab pulled up in front of the hotel, Dawson opened the door, let the two F.B.I. men get out ahead of him, and got out quickly himself, leaving Freddy Farmer the last to alight. Without so much as a look over his shoulder, Dawson linked arms with the two F.B.I. men and hurried them up the steps into the hotel.
"Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer call out. "Oh, I say, Dave!"
The two F.B.I. men wanted to stop, but Dawson practically pushed them through the doors.
"It's okay," he chuckled. "Just his turn to be left holding the bag. He'll be right in. You'll see."
That was exactly the case. A moment later Freddy came hurrying inside, flush-faced, with a very hard-eyed taxicab driver right at his heels.
"I say, Dave!" the English youth panted. "You know I haven't a bean on me. Let me have—"
"We're all broke!" Dawson said coldly. "You were last out, anyway. Go over to the desk, borrow the fare, and have it put on your bill. I'll see if there's any mail for us. Meet you upstairs in our room."