His eyes
followed my glance toward his shoes.
"For the fox-trot," he said. "The old ones were no good.
Have a cigarette? These are Armenian, or would you prefer
a Honolulan or a Nigerian? Now," he resumed, when we had
lighted our cigarettes, "what would you like to do first?
Dance the tango? Hear some Hawaiian music, drink cocktails,
or what?"
"Why, what I should like most of all, Father
Knickerbocker--"
But he interrupted me.
"There's a devilish fine woman! Look, the tall blonde
one! Give me blondes every time!" Here he smacked his
lips. "By gad, sir, the women in this town seem to get
finer every century. What were you saying?"
"Why, Father Knickerbocker," I began, but he interrupted
me again.
"My dear fellow," he said. "May I ask you not to call me
_Father_ Knickerbocker?"
"But I thought you were so old," I said humbly.
"Old! Me _old_! Oh, I don't know. Why, dash it, there
are plenty of men as old as I am dancing the tango here
every night. Pray call me, if you don't mind, just
Knickerbocker, or simply Knicky--most of the other boys
call me Knicky. Now what's it to be?"
"Most of all," I said, "I should like to go to some quiet
place and have a talk about the old days.
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