“All right. You're elected. Gimme the address.”
Skip wrote it on one of the business cards of the bakery. He added:
“Another thing: I know a good expressman will rustle your trunk over from—Where you boardin' at now?”
Kedzie flushed. She could hardly tell him that she had boarded in a park up-town somewhere.
Skip saw that she was confused. He showed exquisite tact.
“I'm wise, goilie. She's holdin' your trunk out on you. I been in the same boat m'self.”
Kedzie was willing to let it go at that, but Skip pondered:
“But, say—that ain't goin' to make such a hell of a hit—scuse me, lady—but I mean if you tell your new landlady about your trunk bein' left on your old one, that ain't goin' to get you nothin' but the door-slam in the snoot.... I tell you: tell her you just come in on the train and your wardrobe-trunk is on the way unless it got delayed in changin' cars at—oh, any old place. I guess you did come in, at that, from Buffalo or Pittsboig or some them Western joints, didn' you?”
Kedzie just looked at him. Her big eyes lied for her, and he hastened to say:
“Well, scuse me nosin' in on your own business. Tell the landlady what you want to, only tell her it was me sent you. That's as good as a guarantee—that she'll have to wait for her money.”