ttin' crowded, Chetty," says
I. "Let's back out."

"Hanged if I do!" says he, and proceeds to do the butt in act about as
gentle as a truck horse boltin' through a show window. "Oh, you're
here, Angelica!" he growls out. "I've been hunting all over the shop
for you."

"S-s-sh!" says Angelica, holding up one finger and him off with the
other hand.

"Yes, I see," says Chester; "but----"

"Oh, please run away and don't bother!" says she. "That's a good boy,
now Chester."

"Oh, darn!" says Chester.

That was the best he could do too, for they don't even wait to see us
start. Angelica gives us a fine view of her back hair, and Mr.
Curlylocks begins where he left off, and spiels away. It was a good
deal the same kind of rot he had shoved at me on the train,--all about
hearts and lovin' and so on,--only here he throws in business with the
eyelashes, and seems to have pulled out the soft vocal stops.

Chester stands by for a minute, tryin' to look holes through 'em, and
then he lets me lead him off.

"Now what do you think of that?" says he, makin' a face like he'd
tasted something that had been too long in the can.

"Why," says I, "it's touchin', if true. Who's the home destroyer with
the vaseline voice and the fuzzy nut?"

"He calls himself Sylvan Vickers," says Chester. "He's a poet--a
sappy, slushy, milk and water poet. Writes stuff about birds and
flowers and love, and goes around spouting it to women."

"Why," says I, "he peeled off a few strips for me, comin' up on the
cars, and I though it was hot stuff."

"Honest, Shorty," says Chester, swallowin' the string as fast as I
could unwind the ball, "you--you don't like that kind of guff, do you?"

"Oh, well," says I, "I don't wake up in the night and cry for it, and
maybe I can worry along for the next century or so without hearin' any
more; but he's sure found some one that does like it, eh?"

There's no sayin' but what Chester held himself in well; for if ever a
man was entitled to a grouch, it was him. But he says mighty little,
just walks off scowlin' and settin' his teeth hard. I knew what was
good for that; so I hints that he round up his chappies and go down
into the gym. to work it off.

Chetty's enthusiasm for mitt jugglin' has all petered out, though, and
it's some time before I can make him see it my way. Then we has to
find his crowd, that was scattered around in the different rooms,
lonesome and tired; so it's late in the evenin'