“Sure, you leave your car fer grannie, and you come vit us, and we git some dinner, and den we see dem mob scenes took. You come along, Mr. Carpenter, I gotta have some talk vit you. And you, Billy? And Rosythe—come, pile in.”
“I have to wait for the missus,” said the critic. “We have a date.”
“Vell,” said T-S, and he went up close. “You do me a favor, Rosythe; don't say nuttin' about dis fellow Carpenter tonight. I feed him and git him feelin' good, and den I make a contract vit him, and I give you a front page telegraph story, see?”
“All right,” said the critic.
“Mum's de vord now,” said the magnate; and he waddled out, and the two caryatids lifted the flesh-mountain, and half carried it to the elevator, and Mary walked with Carpenter, and I brought up the rear.
The car of T-S was waiting at the door, and this car is something special. It is long, like a freight-car, made all of shining gun-metal, or some such material; the huge wheels are of solid metal, and the fenders are so big and solid, it looks like an armored military car. There is an extra wheel on each side, and two more locked on to the rear. There is a chauffeur in uniform, and a footman in uniform, just to open the doors and close them and salute you as you enter. Inside, it is all like the sofas in Madame's scalping shop; you fall into them, and soft furs enfold you, and you give a sigh of Contentment, “O-o-o-o-o-o-oh!”
“Prince's,” said T-S to the chauffeur, and the palace on wheels began to glide along. It occurred to me to wonder that T-S was not embarrassed to take Carpenter to a fashionable eating-place. But I could read his thoughts; everybody would assume that he had been “on location” with one of his stars; and anyhow, what the hell? Wasn't he Abey Tszchniczklefritszch?
“Wor-r-r-r-r! Wor-r-r-r-r-r!” snarled the horn of the car; and I could understand the meaning of this also. It said: “I am the car of Abey Tszchniczklefritszch, king of the movies, future king of the world. Get the hell out o' my way!” So we sped through the crowded streets, and pedestrians scattered like autumn leaves before a storm. “My Gawd, but I'm hungry!” said T-S. “I ain't had nuttin' to eat since lunch-time. How goes it, Maw? Feelin' better? Vell, you be all right ven you git your grub.”
So we came to Prince's, and drew up before the porte-cochere, and found ourselves confronting an adventure. There was a crowd before the place, a surging throng half-way down the block, with a whole line of policemen to hold them back. Over the heads of the crowd were transparencies, frame boxes with canvas on, and lights inside, and words painted on them. “Hello!” cried T-S. “Vot's dis?”
Suddenly I recalled what I had read in the morning's paper. The workers of the famous lobster palace had gone on strike, and trouble was feared. I told T-S, and he exclaimed: “Oh, hell! Ain't we got troubles enough vit strikers in de studios, vitout dey come spoilin' our dinner?”