"Flit then, François," says I. "We're two dry ones."
And my hope of gettin' a tongue loosener into Ira goes glimmerin'. When it comes to tacklin' strange dishes, though, he was no quitter, followin' me from bouillabaisse to café parfait without battin' an eyelash, and me orderin' reckless from the card just to see what the things looked like.
I don't know whether it was the fancy rations, or the sporty crowd around us, or the jiggly music, or a combination of all three; but by the time I've induced Mr. Higgins to tackle a demitasse and light up a seven-inch Havana he mellows enough so that he's almost on the point of makin' a remark all by himself.
"Well," says I encouragin', "why not let it come?"
And it does. "By gorry!!" says he. "It's most eight o'clock. What time do the shows begin?"
"I was just go in' to mention that," says I. "Plenty of time, though. Anything special you'd like to see?"
"Why, yes," says he. And then, glancin' around cautious, he leans across the table and asks mysterious, "Say, where's Maizie Latour actin'?"
Honest, it comes out so unexpected he had me gaspin'. "Oh, you Boothbay ringer!" says I. "Maizie, eh? Now, who would have thought it? And you only landed this mornin'! Maizie—er—what was that again?"
"Latour," says he, flushin' up some and tryin' not to notice my josh.
"It's by me," says I. "Sounds like musical comedy, though. Is she a showgirl, or one of the chicken ballet?"