They passed under an immense, brightly lighted vault and then wriggled
through the crowds in pursuit of the astonishingly agile porter. So
they came out of the big station to Forty-second Street, where they
found themselves confronted by a taxi driver and the question:
"Where?"

"I dunno," said Ronicky to Bill. "Your reading tell you anything about
the hotels in this here town?"

"Not a thing," said Bill, "because I never figured that I'd be fool
enough to come this far away from my home diggings. But here I am, and
we don't know nothing."

"Listen, partner," said Ronicky to the driver. "Where's a
fair-to-medium place to stop at?"

The taxi driver swallowed a smile that left a twinkle about his eyes
which nothing could remove. "What kind of a place? Anywhere from fifty
cents to fifty bucks a night."

"Fifty dollars!" exclaimed Bill Gregg. "Can you lay over that,
Ronicky? Our wad won't last a week."

"Say, pal," said the taxi driver, becoming suddenly friendly, "I can
fix you up. I know a neat little joint where you'll be as snug as you
want. They'll stick you about one-fifty per, but you can't beat that
price in this town and keep clean."

"Take us there," said Bill Gregg, and they climbed into the machine.