"Well--are you coming, Walter?" he asked finally--the only answer
to my flood of caution.
Then he went out. I followed, still arguing.
"If YOU go, _I_ go," I capitulated. "That's all there is to it."
Following the directions that Michael had given over the telephone
Craig led me into one of the toughest parts of the lower West
Side.
"Here's the place," he announced, stopping across the street from
a dingy Raines Law Hotel.
"Pretty tough," I objected. "Are you sure?"
"Quite," replied Kennedy, consulting his note book again.
"Well, I'll be hanged if I'll go in that joint," I persisted.
It had no effect on Kennedy. "Nonsense, Walter," he replied,
crossing the street.
Reluctantly I followed and we entered the place.
"I want a room," asked Craig as we were accosted by the
proprietor, comfortably clad in a loud checked suit and striped
shirt sleeves. "I had one here once before--forty-nine, I think."
"Fifty--" I began to correct.
Kennedy trod hard on my toes.
"Yes, forty-nine," he repeated.
The proprietor called a stout negro porter, waiter, and bell-hop
all combined in one, who led us upstairs.
"Fohty-nine, sah," he pointed out, as Kennedy dropped a dime into
his ready palm.
The negro left us and as Craig started to enter, I objected, "But,
Craig, it was fifty-nine, not forty-nine.
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