re do you get a license to
crash in?"

"Just what I was working up to," says I. "For one thing, he's the only
perfect office boy in captivity. The Corrugated can't spare him. Then
again, there's Mother. Honest, Mirabelle, you ought to see
Mother--reg'lar stage widow, with the sad sweet smile, the soft gray
hair, 'n'everything. If you could, you'd lay off this Theda Bara act the
next minute."

It was a poor hunch, pullin' out that sympathy stop for Mirabelle. I
knew that when I saw them black eyes of hers begin to give off sparks.

"Listen, son," says she, "if you feel as bad as all that run down in the
sub-cellar and sob in the coal bins. I'll be getting nervous, next thing
I know, listening to ravings like that."

"My error," says I. "Course, you didn't know how a few kind words and a
little off-hand target practice with the eyes would affect Vincent. How
should you? But he's taking it all serious. Uh-huh! Been buying the
ring."

"What!" says Mirabelle, startled.

"A real blue-white, set in platinum," says I. "On the instalments, of
course. And he's plungin' with all his war savings on wild cat stocks to
make good. Oh, he's in a reg'lar trance, Vincent. So you see?"

Mirabelle seems to see a good deal more than I was expectin' her to.
Just now she's glancin' approvin' into one of the display mirrors and is
pattin' down the hair puffs over her ears.

"He _is_ a dear boy," she remarks, more to the mirror than to me.

"But look here," says I, "you--you wouldn't let him go on with this,
would you?"

"I beg pardon?" says Mirabelle. "Still chattering, are you? Well,
stretch your ear once, young feller. When I want your help in this I'll
send out a call. If you don't get one you'll know you ain't needed.
Here's your package, sir. Sixty cents, please."

And I'm given the quick shunt, just like that. Whatever it was I thought
I was doing, I'd bugged it. The rescue expedition had gone on the rocks.
Absolutely. I might have known better, too; spillin' all that dope about
the solitaire. As if that would throw a scare into Mirabelle! Of all the
bush-league plays! Instead of untanglin' Vincent any from the net I'd
only got him twisted up tighter. With that ring on him he was just as
safe as an exposed pocket flask at an Elks' picnic.

I was retreatin' draggy with my chin down when I happens to get a grin
from this wise guy Marcus, in charge of the cigar booth opposite.

"You don't have no luck with Mirabelle, eh?" sa