By the time we lands at the iron pier she has knocked Coney so much that I has worked up a first class grouch.
"Come on!" says I. "Let's have Maggie's address and get through with this rescue business before all you good folks is soggy with sin."
Then it turns out she ain't got any address at all. The most she knows is that Maggie's somewhere on the island.
"Well," I shouts into the tube, "Coney's something of a place, you see! What's your idea of findin' her?"
"We must search," says Aunt Isabella, prompt and decided.
"Mean to throw out a regular drag net?" says I.
She does. Well, say, if you've ever been to Coney on a good day, when there was from fifty to a hundred thousand folks circulatin' about, you've got some notion of what a proposition of that kind means. Course, I wa'n't goin to tackle the job with any hope of gettin' away with it; but right there I'm struck with a pleasin' thought.
"Do I gather that I'm to be the Commander Peary of this expedition?" says I.
It was a unanimous vote that I was.
"Well," says I, "you know you can't carry it through on hot air. It takes coin to get past the gates in this place."