upstairs; but Vee is only dozin', and
wakes up with a jump.

"Is that you, Torchy?" says she. "Has--has anything dreadful happened?"

"Yes," says I. "I had to pull a low tackle, and Danny Shea's declared
war on Sweden."

CHAPTER XVIII

TAG DAY AT TORCHY'S

Course, in a way, it was our fault, I expect. We never should have let
on that there was any hitch about what we was goin' to name the baby.
Blessed if I know now just how it got around. I remember Vee and I
havin' one or two little talks on the subject, but I don't think we'd
tackled the proposition real serious.

You see, at first we were too busy sort of gettin' used to havin' him
around and framin' up a line on this parent act we was supposed to put
over. Anyway, I was. And for three or four weeks, there, I called him
anything that came handy, from Young Sport to Old Snoodlekins. Vee she
sticks to Baby. Uh-huh--just plain Baby. But the way she says it,
breathin' it out kind of soft and gentle, sounded perfectly all right to
me.

And the youngster didn't seem to have any kick comin'. He was gettin' so
he'd look up and coo real intelligent when she speaks to him in that
fashion. You couldn't blame him, for it was easy to listen to.

As for the different things I called him--well, he didn't mind them,
either. No matter what it was,--Old Pink Toes or Wiggle-heels,--he'd
generally pass it off with a smile, providin' he wasn't too busy with
his bottle or tryin' to get hold of his foot with both of his hands.

Then one day Auntie, who's been listenin' disapprovin' all the while,
just can't hold in any longer.

"Isn't it high time," says she, "that you addressed the child properly
by his right name?"

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Which one?"

"You don't mean to say," she goes on, "that you have not yet decided on
his baptismal name?"

"I didn't know he was a Baptist," says I feeble.

"We hadn't quite settled what to call him," says Vee.

"Besides," I adds, "I don't see the use bein' in a rush about it. Maybe
were're savin' that up."

"Saving!" says Auntie. "For what reason?"

"Oh, general conservation," says I. "Got the habit. We've had heatless
Mondays and wheatless Wednesdays and fryless Fridays and sunless
Sundays, so why not nameless babies?"

Auntie sniffs and goes off with her nose in the air, as she always does
whenever I spring any of my punk persiflage on her.

But then Vee takes it up, and says Auntie is right and that we really
ough