e-topped brown derby. Only there's no Louise waiting
inside.

They're a shifty bunch, these independents. Some you can hire for a
bank robbing job or a little act with gun play in it, and some you
can't. This mutt looked like he'd be up to anything. But when I asks him
if he remembers the lady in the evening dress he had aboard last night
he just looks stupid and shakes his head.

"Oh, it's all right," says I. "No come-back to it."

"Mebby so," says he, "but my big line, son, is forgettin' things."

"Would this help your memory any?" says I, slippin' him a couple of
dollars.

He grins and stows it away the kale. "Aw, you mean the party with the
wild eyes, eh?" he asks.

"Uh-huh!" says I. "I was just curious to know where you picked her up."

"That's easy," says he. "She came out of there, third door above. I get
most of my fares from there."

"Oh," says I, steppin' out for a squint. "Looks like a private house."

"It's private, all right," says he, "but it's a home for dippy ones. You
know," and he taps his head. "She's a sample. I've had her before. They
slip out now and then. Last night she made her getaway through the
basement door. I expect she's back by now."

"Yes," says I, "I expect she is."

And I don't need to ask any more. The mystery of the lovely Louise has
been cleared up complete.

First off I was going to tell Ernie all about it, but when I saw him
sitting there at his high desk, gazin' sort of blank at nothing at all
and kind of smilin' reminiscent, I didn't have the heart. Instead, I
asks confidential, as usual:

"Any word yet from Louise?"

"Not yet," says Ernie, "but then----"

"I get you," says I. "And I got to hand it to you, Ernie; you're a cagey
old sport, even if you don't look it."

He don't deny. Hadn't I seen him start on his big night? And say, he's
gettin' so he can walk past that line of lady typists and give 'em the
once over without changin' color in the ears. He's almost skirt broken,
Ernie is.

CHAPTER VIII

HOW BABE MISSED HIS STEP

What Babe Cutler was plannin' certainly listened like a swell party--the
kind you read about. He was going to round up three other sports like
himself, charter a nice comfortable yacht, and spend the winter knockin'
about in the West Indies, with a bunch of bananas always hangin' under
the deck awning aft and a cabin steward forward mixing planter's punch
every time the sun got over the yard arm.

"The lucky stiff!" thinks