CHAPTER EIGHTThat star of stage, screen and brissim shouted fuzzily at the door: “Go to hell! Let me sleep!”
“Dave!” It was Mr. Semmel’s voice. “There’s some men here. They want to talk to you.”
Dave Wax made an obscene suggestion to Mr. Semmel. He was a tummeler, not the manager of the hotel; let Mrs. Goudeket come back and talk if somebody should do it—“Wait a minute. What’d you say, Semmel?”
The concessionaire repeated it. “The flood’s over?” demanded Dave Wax. “The roads are dry?” He staggered over to the window to see the miracle for himself.
Semmel let himself in. “They came in a boat.”
“Oh.” But it was no surprise. It was still raining. “All right. I’ll come down.”
He found himself hurrying in spite of himself. It was only a couple of minutes before he was hurrying through the
