he gave him to understand that a perfectly good
son-in-law wasn't expected to be such a shark at shopping for wool.
Anyway, we've been getting along fairly well ever since. You have to, in
a place like El Placida."

"And this is a little postponed honeymoon tour, eh?" I suggests.

"Hardly," says Ambrose. "I hope it's a clean break away from the
continent of South America in general and El Placida in particular."

"Oh!" says I. "Will Senor Alvarado stake you to that?"

"He isn't staking anybody now," says Ambrose. "Uh-huh! Checked out last
winter. Good old scout. Left everything to 'Chita, the whole works. And
I've been ever since then trying to convince her that the one spot worth
living in anywhere on the map is this little old burg with Broadway
running through the middle."

"That ought to be easy," says I.

"Not with a girl who's been brought up to think that Buenos Ayres is the
last word in cities," says Ambrose. "Why, she's already begun to feel
sorry for the bellhops and taxi drivers and salesladies because she's
discovered that not one of 'em knows a word of Spanish. Asks me how all
these people manage to amuse themselves evenings with no opera to go to,
no band playing on the plaza, and so on. See what I'm up against,
Torchy?"

"I get a glimmer," says I.

"That's why I'm glad you are going to tow us around," he goes on,
"instead of Bob Ellins. He's a back number, Bob. Me, too, from having
been out of it all so long. Why, I've only been scouting about a little,
but I can't find any of the old joints."

"Yes, a lot of 'em have been put out of business," says I.

"Must be new ones just as good though," he insists. "The live wires
have to rally around somewhere."

"I don't know about that," says I. "This prohibition has put a crimp
in--"

"Oh, you can't tell me!" breaks in Ambrose. "Maybe it's dimmed the
lights some in Worcester and Toledo and Waukegan, but not in good old
Manhattan. Not much! I know the town too well. Our folks just wouldn't
stand for any of that Sahara bunk. Not for a minute. Might have covered
up a bit--high sign necessary, side entrances only, and all that. But
you can't run New York without joy water. It's here. And so are the gay
lads and lassies who uncork it. We want to mingle with 'em, 'Chita and
yours truly. I want her to see the lights where they're brightest, the
girls where they're gayest. Want to show her how the wheels go 'round.
You get me; eh, Torchy?"

"Sure!" says