"
"Right," he said. "We're going to just the place now--nice
quiet dinner, a good quiet orchestra, Hawaiian, but quiet,
and lots of women." Here he smacked his lips again, and
nudged me with his elbow. "Lots of women, bunches of
them. Do you like women?"
"Why, Mr. Knickerbocker," I said hesitatingly, "I
suppose--I--"
The old man sniggered as he poked me again in the ribs.
"You bet you do, you dog!" he chuckled. "We _all_ do.
For me, I confess it, sir, I can't sit down to dinner
without plenty of women, stacks of them, all round me."
Meantime the taxi had stopped. I was about to open the
door and get out.
"Wait, wait," said Father Knickerbocker, his hand upon
my arm, as he looked out of the window. "I'll see somebody
in a minute who'll let us out for fifty cents. None of
us here ever gets in or out of anything by ourselves.
It's bad form. Ah, here he is!"
A moment later we had passed through the portals of a
great restaurant, and found ourselves surrounded with
all the colour and tumult of a New York dinner _a la
mode_. A burst of wild music, pounded and thrummed out
on ukuleles by a group of yellow men in Hawaiian costume,
filled the room, helping to drown or perhaps only serving
to accentuate the babel of talk and the clatter of dishes
that arose on every side.
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