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Accompanied by Chuck, the Ramblin' Kid went directly to the entry offices of the Rodeo, which were roughly boxed-up compartments under the rear of the grandstand. A group of "hot-dog" vendors and "concession spielers" looked curiously at the two as they left Captain Jack and Silver Tip, with bridle reins dropped over their heads, standing in front of the office and stepped inside.
Pete was amazed by the lights and the clamor a stringed orchestra playing in this open front, and a hot-dog vender declaiming in this open front; a moving-picture entrance brilliantly illuminated, and a constant movement of folk up and down the streets in free-and-easy fashion, and he almost forgot the cumulative hazards of their companionship in experiencing his first plunge into city life.
The springs at Saratoga had already been discovered, and there were many New Yorkers who made the then long and arduous trip. But nearer at hand was the "Beach at Rockaway," sung by the military poet, George P. Morris, and Coney Island. At the latter resort conditions were primitive. Unheard were the blaring of bands, and the raucous cry of the "Hot-Dog man," and the riot and roar of the rabble.
And you feel that, after all, there's only one reg'lar place on the map here, where you can either pay a nickel for a hot-dog breakfast off a pushcart, or blow in ninety cents for a pair of yesterday's eggs in a Fifth Avenue grill: where you can see lovely lady plutesses roll by in their heliotrope limousines, or watch little Rosie Chianti sail down the asphalt on one roller skate. Uh-huh!
At midnight Soames got his motorcycle out of the woods and onto the highway. He rode slowly back toward Bluevale. He stopped at a hot-dog stand outside the town and waited there for another signal. At one, nothing had happened. Soames was close enough to the town to have heard any tumult, certainly any shots. At two and three nothing.
Oh say, are you doing much insurance examining?" They went on to the street fair. Lining one block of Main Street were the "attractions" two hot-dog stands, a lemonade and pop-corn stand, a merry-go-round, and booths in which balls might be thrown at rag dolls, if one wished to throw balls at rag dolls.
In between the registration stands were the hot-dog and coffee booths with the tenders yelling, while thick black coffee flowed into tin cups by the barrel, and sandwiches were handed out by the tubful. Popcorn and peanut venders pushed through the crowd crying their wares.
There were the same two-story brick groceries with lodge-signs above the awnings; the same one-story wooden millinery shop; the same fire-brick garages; the same prairie at the open end of the wide street; the same people wondering whether the levity of eating a hot-dog sandwich would break their taboos. They reached Gopher Prairie at nine in the evening. "You look kind of hot," said Kennicott.
"Can you spot any movie shows or hot-dog wagons out there, Cap'n?" I asks. He just glares peevish and declines to answer. "What you lookin' for, anyway?" I goes on. "Nothing I care to discuss with you, I think," says he. "Bing-g-g," says I. "Right on the wrist!" And then all of a sudden Mrs. Mumford gets hipped with the idea that Rupert is sort of bein' neglected. Well, trust her.
On get-away day the program boy bawls his loudest and the hot-dog purveyor pushes his fragrant wares with the utmost energy. On get-away day the judges are more than usually alert, scenting outward indications of a "job."
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