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Updated: June 28, 2025
You see, Father had been comin' strong in business of late, antiques and house decoratin'. I remember havin' seen the name over the door of his big Fifth-ave. shop, Leo Ull.
Why, on lower Fifth-ave. they capitalize such habits and make 'em pay for fifteen-story buildin's. Strikes me this Lindy of yours is perfectly good sweatshop material. You don't know a good thing when you see it, Sadie." "There, there, Shorty!" says she. "Don't try to be comic about it. There's nothing in the least funny about Lindy."
Just before the Ellins' front door closed behind her I caught the wave of a handkerchief; so I guess she can't be so awful mad. Ride back to the office? Say, I paid off the taxi and floated down Fifth-ave. as light as if it was paved with gas balloons. "Huh!" grunts Mr. Robert, after I'd made my report. "Brought home a steamer friend, did she? Who did you say it was?"
And say, they can think up some queer stunts, hangin' around the club of an afternoon and lookin' out at Fifth-ave. through the small end of a glass. This was one of them real clubby dreams. It started by Mr. Robert countin' himself in on a debate that he didn't know the beginning of. "When they asked me if I could do it, I said, 'Of course I can," says he, "and then I asked what it was."
His idea was, I believe, to catch Western millionaires abroad and sell 'em Fifth-ave. mansions. Actually did land one or two customers, I think. But it was his wife's notion that turned out to be really practical, leasing French and Italian villas to rich Americans. Something in that, you know, and if Dick had only stuck to it but Dick never could.
Drummer looks until his eyes ache, and then he hikes himself back East to get up a comp'ny to work the mine. He'd just made plans to build a solid gold mansion on Fifth-ave. and hire John D. Rockefeller for a butler, when he strays into one of these Gospel missions and gets religion so hard that he can't shake it. Then he sees how selfish it would be to keep all that gold for himself.
"You mean most of us never remember," says I. "But you're a true sport, anyway, and the least I can do is to blow you to the best lunch on Fifth-ave. Come on." He consents ready enough, providin' I'll stroll over to the Grand Central with him first, while he sees about some baggage.
Not havin' a stretcher handy, we drags him out to the curb, and I blows some more of my expense account against a taxi, which lands us safe and sound at this Fifth-ave. number up in the 70's. "Guests of Miss Marjorie Ellins," was to be the password, and the flunky in satin pants at the door seems to have been well posted.
I'd quit at the mat, though, and was slopin' down the front steps, when I'm held up by this sharp-spoken old girl with the fam'ly umbrella and the string bonnet. "Young man," says she, plantin' herself square in front of me, "is this Mr. Twombley-Crane's house?" "This is where it begins," says I, lookin' her over some amused; for that lid of hers sure was the quaintest thing on Fifth-ave.
"There's more sense to that than anything else you've said in a week," says I. "Wish I could be there to hold your hat." "Why not?" says he. "Come on. I may need fresh inspiration." "Whatever I gives you'll be fresh, all right," says I; "but if I was you, and was goin' to butt into any Fifth-ave. hotel along about dinner-time, I'd wear the regalia. Yours ain't in on a ticket, is it?" It wa'n't.
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