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Ever in the Tractions Buildin'? Say, it's like bein' caught in a fog down the bay, all silence and myst'ry. I expect it's the headquarters of a hundred or more diff'rent corporations, all tied up some way or other with I. U. interests; but on the doors never the name of one shows: just "Mr. So-and-So," "Mr. Whadye Callum," "Mr. This-and-That."
He's a husky-built party, with narrow-set, suspicious eyes. "Up to Mr. Nash's," says I casual, makin' a move to walk right past. "Back up!" says he, steppin' square across the way. "What Mr. Nash?" "Whadye mean, what Mr. Nash?" says I. "There ain't clusters of 'em, are there? Mr. Gedney Nash, of course." "Wrong street," says he. "Try around on Broadway."
"But but there's Baby's milk," objects Ferdie. "Marjorie always watches the nurse sterilize it, you know." "Do up a gallon before you leave," says I. "It's such a puzzling place to get to, though," says Ferdie. "I'm sure we'd never get on the right train." "Whadye mean, train," says I. "Ah, show some class! Go in your limousine." "So we could," says Ferdie.
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