"How odd!" says she, tearin' off a little laugh that sounds as if it come out of a music box. "I suppose you will take them home?"
"Home!" says Pinckney. Say, you'd thought he never heard the word before. "Why—ah—er—I live at the club, you know."
"Oh," says she.
"Would a hotel do?" says Pinckney.
"You might try it," says she, throwin' me a look that was all twinkles.
Then we rounds up the kids' traps, sees to their baggage, and calls another cab. Pinckney and the girl takes Jill, I loads Jack in with me, and off we starts. It was a great ride. Ever try to answer all the questions a kid of that age can think up? Say, I was three behind and short of breath before we'd gone ten blocks.
"Is all this America?" says Mr. Jack, pointin' up Broadway.
"No, sonny," says I; "this is little old New York."
"Where's America, then?" says he.
"Around the edges," says I.