We went downstairs again and out on the porch, where some o’ the old birds was takin’ a sun bath.
“Where now?” I says.
“The beach, o’ course,” says the Missus.
“Where is it at?” I ast her.
“I suppose,” she says, “that we’ll find it somewheres near the ocean.”
“I don’t believe you can stand this climate,” says I.
“The ocean,” she says, “must be down at the end o’ that avenue, where most everybody seems to be headed.”
“Havin’ went to our room and back twice, I don’t feel like another five-mile hike,” I says.
“It ain’t no five miles,” she says; “but let’s ride, anyway.”
“Come on,” says I, pointin’ to a streetcar that was standin’ in the middle o’ the avenue.
“Oh, no,” she says. “I’ve watched and found out that the real people takes them funny-lookin’ wheel chairs.”
I was wonderin’ what she meant when one o’ them pretty near run over us. It was part bicycle, part go-cart and part African. In the one we dodged they was room for one passenger, but some o’ them carried two.
“I wonder what they’d soak us for the trip,” I says.
“Not more’n a dime, I don’t believe,” says the Missus.
But when we’d hired one and been w’isked down under the palms and past the golf field to the bathhouse, we was obliged to part with fifty