"Just ask Robert," says he, "if it has occurred to him that those P. K. & Q. contract copies have got to be filed with the bonding company this afternoon. That's all."
"Right!" says I. "P. K. & Q. contracts. I'm off."
Ever get as far up into the northwest corner of the island as Fort Washington Road? Then you know how many blocks it is from the nearest subway station. Not havin' time for a half-hour stroll, I takes a Broadway express, jumps it at 157th, hunts up a taxi, and turns down the red flag.
"Now don't try zigzaggin' around to roll up mileage," says I to the shuffer; "but beat it straight there."
Some swell places up in that neck of Manhattan, what? Why, some of them folks has so much back yard they keep their own cow. When we rolls in through a pair of big stone gates I begin to suspect that the Misses Pulsifers was lady plutes for fair, and the size of the house had me stunned.
"I'm swell lookin' front door comp'ny, I am," thinks I, handin' over a dollar thirty to the taxi pirate and paradin' in across the red carpet. "Now what is it I tell the butler when he pushes out his tray?"
All the guard they has on the door, though, is a French maid, and when she starts to look me over suspicious I shoves the invitation card at her.
"Say, Marie," says I, "where's the doin's?"
"Pardon?" says she. "What you wish?"
"Ah, where do they keep the music?" says I.