er."

"What of it?" said Skippy loudly, though the chill began to ascend from
his feet.

"My Lord--"

"Say, you're not losing your nerve, you chicken-hearted rabbit, are
you?" said Skippy, who was now absolutely terrified.

"You mean you're game?"

"Snorky! I wouldn't have believed it of you!"

"Say, it isn't your family or your sister," said Snorky angrily. "My
aunt's cat's pants, how they'll howl!"

Skippy prepared for the great event by what would have sufficed for a
European semi-annual immersion and, emerging spotless and stainless
from the bath, with his derby closely pressed over the niceties of his
parted hair, perceived that he had still forty-two minutes left of the
hour and a half he had allotted to this supreme toilette.

"My Lord, I hope I've got everything," he said, standing in diaphanous
contemplation. The one thing that worried him a little was the studs.
They had looked over twenty different varieties, flat ones and solid
gold ones, spirals, encrusted studs, and studs that anchored with a
queer twist. Finally they had allowed themselves to be persuaded by a
flashy clerk and settled on a patent imitation pearl stud that pushed in
and stuck, simplest thing in the world, like the click of a spring lock;
that would leave the beautiful creamy white expanse of shirt absolutely
unruffled by any preliminary struggle.

"Shall I try 'em on first?" he thought, glancing down at the immaculate
bosom. But at this moment a voice behind him cried pompously.

"Old top. Cast your eye on this."

Skippy gazed and his courage rose. His private opinion was that Snorky
looked like a French butcher going to a morning wedding in hired
regalia.

"The suit's a lalapazooza!" he said carefully.

"It'll kill old Carrots," said Snorky, who thus referred to his sister.
"She's over the age limit now but when I pull this she'll look a
grandmother! Say, look me over. Make sure there are no tags or price
marks. All right?"

"Jim dandy."

He went two steps to the door and turned.

"Say, remember one thing. Keep your fists out of your trousers pockets,
Bo. That's important."

"Why so?"

"Ignoramus," said Skippy, reproachfully. "That'll give the whole game
away. You never stick your hands in your trousers pockets unless you're
a greenhorn."

"How do the shirt studs work?" said Skippy, nervously.

"Simplest things in the world."

"Say, Snorky?"

"Well?"

"These coat tails have got pockets in them."

"Sure t