re to feed Herbert up proper with
all the nice things they could drag from the icebox. Then Mother
Pulsifer patted him on the shoulder and shooed Edna and him through the
French doors out on the veranda.

And what do you guess is Mrs. Pulsifer's openin' as we drifts back
towards the scene of the late conflict?

"Why, Deary!" says she. "You haven't your cigars, have you? Here they
are--and the matches. There! Now for the surprise. Our young people have
decided--that is, Edna has--not to be married until two weeks from next
Wednesday."

Does Pa Pulsifer rant any more rants? No. He gets his perfecto goin'
nicely, blows a couple of smoke rings up towards the ceilin', and then
remarks in sort of a weak growl:

"Hanged if I'll walk down a church aisle, Maria--hanged if I do!"

"I told them you wouldn't," says Ma Pulsifer, smoothin' the hair back
over his ears soothin'; "so they've agreed on a simple home wedding,
with only four bridesmaids."

"Huh!" says he. "It's lucky they did."

But, say, take it from me, his days of crackin' the whip around that
joint are over. I'm beginnin' to believe too how some of that dope I fed
to Herbert must have been straight goods. Vee insists on talkin' it over
later, as we are camped in one of them swing seats out on the veranda.

"Wasn't he just splendid," says she: "standing up to Mr. Pulsifer that
way, you know?"

"Some hero!" says I. "I wonder would he give me a few lessons, in case I
should run across your Aunty some day?"

"Pooh!" says Vee. "Just as though I didn't go back to see if he'd gone
and hear you putting him up to all that yourself! It was fine of you to
do it too, Torchy."

"Right here, then!" says I. "Place the laurel wreath right here."

"Silly!" says she, givin' me a reprovin' pat. "Besides, that porch light
is on."

Which was one of the reasons why I turned it off, and maybe accounts for
our sudden break when Marjorie comes out to tell us it's near twelve
o'clock.

Yes, indeed, though he may not look it, Ferdie is more or less of a
help.

[Illustration: "Which was one of the reasons I turned the porch light
off."]

CHAPTER VI

WHEN SKEET HAD HIS DAY

There's one thing about bein' a private sec,--you stand somewhere on the
social list. It may be down towards the foot among the discards; but
you're in the running.

Not that I'm thinkin' of havin' a fam'ly crest worked on my shirt
sleeves, or that I'm beginnin' to sympathize with the lower cl