oet!" says she. "Oh, really now, Torchy!"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "He's done enough for a book. Read me some of it,
too."

"But--but what is it like?" asks Vee. "How does it sound?"

"Why," says I, "it sounds batty to me--like a record made by a sailor
who was simple in the head and talked a lot in his sleep. Course, I'm
no judge. What's the difference, though? Rupert wants to spout it in
public."

"But the people in the restaurant," protests Vee. "Suppose they should
laugh, or do something worse?"

"That's where Rupert is takin' a chance," says I. "Personally, I think
he'll be lucky if they don't throw plates at him. But we ain't
underwritin' any accident policy; we're just bookin' him for a part he
claims he can play. Are you on?"

Vee gets that eye twinkle of hers workin'. "I think it will be perfectly
lovely."

I got to admit, too, that she's quite a help.

"We must be sure Mrs. Mumford and that Bartley person are both there,"
says she. "And we ought to have as many of Captain Killam's friends as
possible. I'll tell you. Let's give a dinner-party."

"Must we?" says I. "You know we ain't introducin' any London success.
This is Rupert's first stab, remember."

We set the date for the day the book was to be out, which gives Rupert
an excuse for celebratin'. He'd invited Mrs. Mumford and Vinton to be
his guests, and they'd promised to be on hand. As for us, we'd rounded
up Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins and J. Dudley Simms.

Well, everybody showed up. And as it happens, it's one of the big nights
at the Purple Pup. The long center table is surrounded by a gay bunch of
assorted artists who are bein' financed by an out-of-town buyer who
seems to be openin' Chianti reckless. We were over in one corner, as far
away from the ukulele torturers as we could get, while at the other end
of the room is Rupert with his two. I thought he looked kind of pallid,
but it might have been only on account of the cigarette smoke.

"Is it time yet, Torchy?" asks Mr. Robert, when we gets through to the
striped ice cream and chicory essence.

"Let's hold off," says I, "and see if someone else don't pull a
curtain-raiser."

Sure enough, they did. A bald-headed, red-faced old boy with a Liberty
Bond button in his coat-lapel insists on everybody's drinkin' to our
boys at the front. Followin' that, someone leads a slim, big-eyed young
female to the piano and announces that she will do a couple of Serbian
folk-songs. Maybe she did. I hope