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Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott), 1896-1940

"Tales of the Jazz Age"


"Get in," said Percy to his friend, as their trunks were tossed to the
ebony roof of the limousine. "Sorry we had to bring you this far in
that buggy, but of course it wouldn't do for the people on the train
or those God-forsaken fellas in Fish to see this automobile."
"Gosh! What a car!" This ejaculation was provoked by its interior.
John saw that the upholstery consisted of a thousand minute and
exquisite tapestries of silk, woven with jewels and embroideries, and
set upon a background of cloth of gold. The two armchair seats in
which the boys luxuriated were covered with stuff that resembled
duvetyn, but seemed woven in numberless colours of the ends of ostrich
feathers.
"What a car!" cried John again, in amazement.
"This thing?" Percy laughed. "Why, it's just an old junk we use for a
station wagon."
By this time they were gliding along through the darkness toward the
break between the two mountains.
"We'll be there in an hour and a half," said Percy, looking at the
clock. "I may as well tell you it's not going to be like anything you
ever saw before."
If the car was any indication of what John would see, he was prepared
to be astonished indeed. The simple piety prevalent in Hades has the
earnest worship of and respect for riches as the first article of its
creed--had John felt otherwise than radiantly humble before them, his
parents would have turned away in horror at the blasphemy.


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