"There," says I, pointin' out the Manhattan Club, that's about as lively as the Subtreasury on a Sunday, "that's Canfield's place. We'd go in and see 'em buck the tiger, only I got a tip that Bingham's goin' to pull it to-night. That youngster in the straw hat just goin' in is Reggie."
"Well, well!" says Bentley.
Oh, I sure did show Bentley a lot of sights that evenin', includin' a wild tour through the Tenderloin—in a Broadway car. We winds up at a roof garden, and, just to give Bentley an extra shiver, I asks the waiter if we wa'n't sittin' somewhere near the table that Harry and Evelyn had the night he was overcome by emotional insanity.
"You're at the very one, sir," he says. Considerin' we was ten blocks away, he was a knowin' waiter.
"This identical table; hear that, Bentley?" says I.
"You don't say!" says he.
"Let's have a bracer," says I. "Ever drink a soda cocktail, Bentley?"
He said he hadn't.
"Then bring us two, real stiff ones," says I. You know how they're made—a dash of bitters, a spoonful of bicarbonate, and a bottle of club soda, all stirred up in a tall glass, almost as intoxicatin' as buttermilk.
"Don't make your head dizzy, does it?" says I.