needed like we needed scarlet fever. Hershel was busier than an ant with a bread-crumb. He was all over the place—bidding for us, pointing out the auctioneer's "plants" in the audience, laying us off the apple sauce goods and telling us which was the bonded stuff. Hazel, who believes one and all guilty till proved innocent, said Hershel for making us buy probably got ten percent of what we squandered. That was doing Hershel a rank injustice, really. I found out afterwards he only got five percent.
While we're disrobing to commute to Dreamland that evening, Hazel gets inquisitive.
"Where on earth do you get those Johns like the one we met this afternoon?" she asks me. "You must have nailed that bird the minute he escaped from the immigration people."
Some day I'm going to send Hazel a present. I'm going to give her a nice box of catnip.
"You seemed to think he was pretty keen when he was paying for that vase you insisted on having," I says, a bit steamed.
"Blah!" says my lovely girl friend. "It only set him back fifteen dollars and the tears just streamed down his cheeks when he paid off. What's his trick?"
"He's in the hotel business," I says carelessly.
"He owns a hotel?" asks Hazel, sitting up straight with glistening eyes.
