"What a question!" he remarks. "I could eat it up!"

"I don't want you to eat it," says Duke, gettin' sore. "If you can
play it, I'll be satisfied! You had better go over and register at the
hotel now, and, when you come back, we'll go over the thing."

Harold gets up, yawns and looks at Miss Vincent.

"I'll show you an entirely new interpretation of Rosalind, Miss
Vincent," he tells her. "Of course, Shakespeare was clever after a
fashion, but _I_--however," he breaks off and holds out his arm.
"Would you care to walk about the grounds here a bit, so that I may
illustrate some of the salient points in my version?"

"No!" cuts in the Kid, before she can answer. "On your way!" he says.
"Miss Vincent's got a date with me to find out is it true you can make
ninety miles an hour in a 1921 Automatic!"

"But--but, my dear sir--" splutters Harold. "I--you--"

"Listen, Stupid," says the Kid. "I can't be bouncin' you all day, but
if you don't canter along, I'll make you hard to catch!"

Miss Vincent smiles and grabs the Kid by the arm.

"Let us have no violence!" she says. "You can tell me all about
Rosalind when I return, Mr. Cuthbert."

"Yeh," adds the Kid. "I'll be willin' to stand for a earful of it
myself, then."

And they breeze out of the office.

"Heavens, what an uncouth ruffian!" pipes Harold, lookin' after 'em.
"I wonder Miss Vincent trusts herself in his company."

"She's a whole lot safer with him than you'd be, old top!" I says.
"And if I was you, I'd lay off that uncouth ruffian stuff around the
Kid. Don't keep temptin' him, because he's liable to get sore, and
when Scanlan gets mad you want to be in the next county!"

"Huh!" sneers Harold. "What does he do, pray?"

"Well," I says, "I'll tell you. I don't get that dewpray thing of
yours, but the last time the Kid got peeved he won the welterweight
title! Is that good enough?"

"He had better look to his laurels," remarks Harold, "for if he insults
me again, he'll lose them! I'm rather a master of boxing, and at home
I won several medals as an amateur heavy--"

"I suppose," I butts in, "I suppose you left them medals in one of them
gray mornin' suits of yours, eh? You didn't have 'em on when the Kid
flattened you, did you?"

"I am not fond of vulgar display," he says, "or--"

"What are you wearin' that black eye for then?" I asks him.

He didn't have none ready for that, and I blew.

Well, Harold run true to form.

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