I.

What was the use wastin' any more breath? Besides, I'd been hearin' a
lot of these young hicks talk big about spots where the lid could be
pried off. Maybe it was so. Ambrose and 'Chita should have a look,
anyway. And I spent the rest of the afternoon interviewin' sporty
acquaintances over the 'phone, gettin' dope on where to hunt for active
capers and poppin' corks. I must say, too, that most of the steers were
a little vague. But, then, you can't tell who's who these days, with so
many ministers givin' slummin' parties and Federal agents so thick.

When I sails around to the Plutoria to collect Amby and wife about 6:30
I finds 'Chita all gussied up like she was expectin' big doings. Quite a
stunner she is, with them high voltage black eyes, and the gold ear
hoops, and in that vivid colored evening gown. And by the sparkle in her
eyes I can guess she's all primed for a reg'lar party.

"How about the old Bonaparte for the eats?" I says to Ambrose.

"Swell!" says he. "I remember giving a little dinner for four there once
when we opened--"

"Yes, I know," says I. "Here's the taxi."

Did look like kind of a jolly bunch, too, down there in the old
dining-room--orchestra jabbin' away, couple of real Jap girls floatin'
around with cigars and cigarettes, and all kinds of glasses on the
tables. But you should have seen Amby's jaw drop when he grabs the wine
list and starts to give an order.

"What the blazes is a grenadine cocktail or--or a pineapple punch?" he
demands.

"By me," says I. "Why not sample some of it?"

Which he does eager. "Bah!" says he. "Call that a cocktail, do they?
Nothing but sweetened water colored up. Here, waiter! Call the chief."

All Ambrose could get out of the head waiter, though, was shoulder
shrugs and regrets. Nothing doing in the real red liquor line. "The
champagne cider iss ver' fine, sir," he adds.

"Huh!" says Ambrose. "Ought to be at four fifty a quart. Well, we'll
take a chance."

Served it in a silver bucket, too. It had the familiar pop, and the
bubbles showed plain in the hollow stemmed glasses, but you could drink
a gallon of it without feelin' inspired to do anything wilder than call
for a life preserver.

The roof garden girl-show that we went to afterwards was a zippy
performance, after it's kind. Also there was a bar in the lobby. Amby
shoved up to that prompt--and came back with two pink lemonades, at 75
cents a throw.

"Well," says I, "ain't there mint on to