“Sure! Why not?” Florence threw her arms about her. “No great occasion would be complete without you.”
The two pals did little else save eat and sleep on their way to New York. From time to time they discussed the mysterious boy in the crimson sweater.
“He was a nice looking boy,” Jeanne mused. “Not a bit like a firebug.”
“No,” Florence agreed. “Not a bit. I can’t think he was one. All the same I would like to know why he always ran away.”
“Was there a firebug at all?” Jeanne asked.
“Probably no one will ever know. Many of the mysteries of this old earth are never solved.”
“Take a taxi from the depot.” This had been the order in Tim’s letter. Florence took him at his word. After handing a grinning redcap a whole quarter, she stepped into one of those luxurious New York taxis, and said, “Hilton Hotel, please.”
Then she settled back against the cushions and sighed, “Boy! This is life.”
At the hotel desk Tim O’Hara’s letter proved an open-sesame to all that was grand and luxurious. They were ushered to a room with delightfully low, twin beds, delicately shaded light, spinet desk and even a radio.
Florence thought of their crowded quarters on the Wanderer and sighed.