n, when I
thought my little grandstand play'd had a chance to sink in, I throws a
good stiff one into the bag, ducks from under, and turns around to sing
out "Next!" to the Baron.

But he wa'n't in sight. Pinckney was there though, and Sadie behind him,
both lookin' wild.

"Hello!" says I. "Where's Patchouli? He was anxious to see me a minute
ago."

"He seemed anxious not to, when he passed us on the stairs just now,"
says Pinckney.

"Did he leave any word?" says I.

"He just said 'Bah!' and jumped into a cab," says Pinckney.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" says Sadie.

"What, him?" says I. "Not that I know about. But I've got this to tell
you, Mrs. Dipworthy: if you put any high value on your new steady,
you'd better chase him off this reservation."

"Why, Shorty McCabe!" says she, takin' me by the shoulders and turnin'
them blue eyes of hers straight at me. "My new steady? That--that
woolly-haired freak?"

Say, you could have slipped me into the penny slot of a gum machine. Oh,
fudge! Piffle! Splash! It's a wonder when I walk I don't make a noise
like a sponge--I take some things in so easy. Is it curious my head
never aches?

Pinckney sees how bad I was feelin', and he cuts in to tell me how
things had worked out. And say, do you know what that Patchouli had
done?

After I left him he goes back tickled to death, and waits for an
openin'. Then, one night when they was havin' a big hunt ball, or some
kind of swell jinks, he tolls Sadie into the palm-room, drops to the mat
on his knees, and fires off that twin-star-luff speech, beggin' her to
fly with him and be his'n. As a capper he digs up that envelop, to show
her there needn't be any hitch in the program.

"What's this?" says Sadie, making a sudden grab and gettin' the goods.
With that she lets go a string of giggles and streaks it out into the
ball-room.

"It is the document of our marriage," says the Baron, makin' a bold
bluff.

"Oh, is it?" says she, openin' the thing up, and reading it off. "Why,
Baron, this doesn't give you leave to marry anyone," says Sadie; "this
is a peddler's license, and here's the badge, too. If you wear this you
can stand on the corner and sell shoe-laces and collar-buttons. I'd
advise you to go do it."

It was while the crowd was howlin' and pinnin' the fakir's tag on him
that he began to froth at the mouth and tell how he was comin' down to
make mincemeat of me.

"That's why we followed him," says Pinckney--"to a