Not that I proceeds to deal out the wise stuff about oil stocks along
the Talk to Investors line. It's too late for that. Besides, Vincent was
due to get a lesson in the folly of piker speculatin' that would last
him a long time. Maybe it was best for him to get it early in his young
career.

But it was going to be rough on the little mother when she hears how her
darling boy has sneaked out the nest egg and tossed it reckless into the
middle of Broad Street. That would be some bump. And then on top of that
if Mirabelle is introduced as her future daughter-in-law--Well, you can
frame up the picture for yourself. And right there I organizes myself
into a relief expedition to rescue the Lost Battalion.

I got to admit that my plan of campaign was a trifle vague. About as far
as I could get was decidin' that somebody ought to have speech with
Mirabelle on the subject. And when we hurries back through the arcade
again, ten minutes behind schedule, and I catches the little exchange of
fond looks between the two, I knows that whatever is done needs to be
started right away. So I mumbles something about having forgotten an
errand, makes a round trip in the elevator, and am back at the candy
counter almost as soon as Vincent has hung up his hat.

"Yes-s-s, sir?" says Mirabelle inquirin', with her best
dollar-fifty-quality smile playin' around where the lip-stick has given
nature a boost.

"Hard gum drops," says I, "or chocolate marshmallows, or most anything
in half-pound size. The main idea is a little chat with you."

"Naughty, naughty!" says Mirabelle, shaking her head until the jet ear
danglers are doing a one-step. "But you men are all alike, aren't you?"

"Is that why you've taken to cradle snatchin'?" says I.

Mirabelle executes the wide shutter movement with her eyes and finishes
with what she thinks is a Mary Pickford pout. "Really, I don't think I
get you," says she. "In other words, meaning what?"

"Referring to the boy, Vincent," says I.

"Oh!" says she, eying me curious. "Dear little fellow, isn't he?"

"Of course," I goes on, "if it's only a case of adoption----"

"Say," she breaks in, her eyelids gettin' narrow, "some of you cerise
blondes ought to be confined to the comic strips. Who do you think
you're kidding, anyway?"

"Sorry, Mirabelle," says I, "but you're all wrong. This is straight
heart-to-heart stuff. You know you've been stringin' Vincent along."

"Suppose I have?" demands Mirabelle. "Whe