she's been caught in the shower and has
sopped up her full share of the rainfall; but it don't seem to trouble
her any.

There ain't anything pastoral about the tall one, though. She's alive all
the way from her runover heels to the wiggly end of the limp feather that
flops careless like over one ear. She's the long-waisted, giraffe-necked
kind; but not such a bad looker if you can forget the depressin' costume.
It had been a blue cheviot once, I guess; the sort that takes on seven
shades of purple about the second season. And it fits her like a damp
tablecloth hung on a chair. Her runnin' mate is all in black, and you
could tell by the puckered seams and the twisted sleeves that it was an
outfit the village dressmaker had done her worst on.

Not that they gives us much chance for a close size-up. The lengthy one
pikes right into the middle of the room, brushes a stringy lock of hair
off her face, and unlimbers her conversation works.

"Gosh!" says she, openin' her eyes wide and lookin' round at the rugs and
furniture. "Hope we haven't pulled up at the wrong ranch. Are you Shorty
McCabe?"

"Among old friends, I am," says I, "Now if you come under----"

"It's all right, Phemey," says she, motionin' to the short one. "Sit
down."

"Sure!" says I. "Don't mind the furniture. Take a couple of chairs."

"Not for me!" says the tall one. "I'll stand in one spot and drip, and
then you can mop up afterwards. But Phemey, she's plumb tuckered."

"It's sweet of you to run in," says I. "Been wadin' in the park lake, or
enjoyin' the shower?"

"Enjoying the shower is good," says she; "but I hadn't thought of
describing it that way. I reckon, though, you'd like to hear who we
are."

"Oh, any time when you get to that," says I.

"That's a joke, is it?" says she. "If it is, Ha, ha! Excuse me if I don't
laugh real hearty. I can do better when I don't feel so much like a
sponge. Maizie May Blickens is my name, and this is Euphemia Blickens."

"Ah!" says I. "Sisters?"

"Do we look it?" says Maizie. "No! First cousins on the whiskered side.
Ever hear that name Blickens before?"

"Why--er--why----" says I, scratchin' my head.

"Don't dig too deep," says Maizie. "How about Blickens' skating rink in
Kansas City?"

"Oh!" says I. "Was it run by a gent they called Sport Blickens?"

"It was," says she.

"Why, sure," I goes on. "And the night I had my match there with the
Pedlar, when I'd spent my last bean on a month's trainin