rose on me." But say, I'll give you the
tale, and then maybe you can write your own ticket.

You see, I'd left Swifty Joe runnin' the Physical Culture Studio, and I
was doin' a lap up the sunny side of the avenue, just to give my holiday
regalia an airing. I wasn't thinkin' a stroke, only just breathin' deep
and feelin' glad I was right there and nowhere else--you know how the
avenue's likely to go to your head these spring days, with the carriage
folks swampin' the traffic squad, and everybody that is anybody right on
the spot or hurrying to get there, and everyone of 'em as fit and
finished as so many prize-winners at a fair?

Well, I wasn't lookin' for anything to come my way, when all of a sudden
I sees a goggle-capped tiger throw open the door of one of them
plate-glass benzine broughams at the curb, and bend over like he has a
pain under his vest. I was just side-steppin' to make room for some
upholstered old battle-ax that I supposed owned the rig, when I feels a
hand on my elbow and hear some one say: "Why, Shorty McCabe! is that
you?"

She was a dream, all right--one of your princess-cut girls, with the
kind of clothes on that would make a turkey-red check-book turn pale.
But you couldn't fool me, even if she had put a Marcelle crimp in that
carroty hair of hers, and washed off the freckles and biscuit flour. You
can't change Irish-blue eyes, can you? And when you've come to know a
voice that's got a range from maple-sugar to mixed pickles, you don't
forget it, either. Know her? Say, I was brought up next door to
Sullivan's boarding-house.

"You didn't take me for King Eddie, did you, Miss Sullivan?" says I.

"I might by the clothes," says she, runnin' her eyes over me, "only I
see you've got him beat a mile. But why the Miss Sullivan?"

"Because I've mislaid your weddin'-card, and there's been other things
on my mind than you since our last reunion," says I. "But I'm chawmed to
meet you again, rully," and I begins to edge off.

"You act it," says she. "You look tickled to death--almost. But I'm
pleased enough for two. Anyway, I'm in need of a man of about your
weight to take a ride with me. So step lively, Shorty, and don't stand
there scaring trade away from the silver shop. Come, jump in."

"Not me," says I. "I never butts into places where there's apt to be a
hubby to ask who's who and what's what."

"But there isn't any hubby now," says she.

"North Dakotaed him?" says I.

"No," says she; "I'