desert island, for Marge knows hardly anyone in the place but us."

She's a great one for spillin' sympathy, and for followin' it up when
she can with the helpin' hand. So a couple of nights later I'm dragged
out on a little missionary expedition over to Honeysuckle Lodge, the
object being to bring a little cheer into the dull gray lives of the
Rawsons' young visitors. Vee makes me doll up in an open face vest and
dinner coat, too.

"The girls will like it, I'm sure," says she.

"Very well," says I. "If the sight of me in a back number Tuck will lift
the gloom from any young hearts, here goes. I hope the excitement don't
prove too much for 'em, though."

I'd kind of doped it out that we'd find the girls sittin' around awed
and hushed; while Stanley indulged in his usual silent struggle with
some great business problem; or maybe they'd be over in a far corner
yawnin' through a game of Lotto. But you never can tell. From two blocks
away we could see that the house was all lit up, from cellar to sleepin'
porch.

"Huh!" says I. "Stanley must be huntin' a burglar, or something."

"No," says Vee. "Hear the music. If I didn't know I should think they
were giving a party."

"Who would they give it to?" I asks.

And yet when the maid lets us in hanged if the place ain't full of
people, mostly young hicks in evenin' clothes, but with a fair sprinklin'
of girls in flossy party dresses. All the livin' room furniture had been
shoved into the dinin' room, the rugs rolled into the corners, and the
music machine is grindin' out the Blitzen Blues, accompanied by the two
mandolins.

In the midst of all this merry scene I finds Stanley wanderin' about
sort of dazed and unhappy.

"Excuse us for crashin' in on a party," says I. "We came over with the
idea that maybe Polly and Dot would be kind of lonesome."

"Lonesome!" says Stanley. "Say, I ask you, do they look it?"

"Not at the present writing," says I.

That was statin' the case mild, too. Over by the music machine Dot and a
youth who's sportin' his first aviation mustache--one of them clipped
eyebrow affairs--are tinklin' away on the mandolins with their heads
close together, while in the middle of the floor Polly and a blond young
gent who seems to be fairly well contented with himslf are practicin'
some new foxtrot steps, with two other youngsters waitin' to cut in.

"Where did you round up all the perfectly good men?" I asks.

"I didn't," says Stanley. "That's what