e had beaned him with a bung-starter.

But we wasn't wise just how strong Rupert had scored until we saw the
half page Whitey Weeks had gotten out of it for the Sunday paper. "New
Poet Captures Greenwich Village" is the top headline, and there's a
three-column cut showin' Rupert spoutin' his "Sea Songs" through the
cigarette smoke. Also, I gather from a casual remark Rupert let drop
yesterday that the prospects of him and Mrs. Mumford enterin' the mixed
doubles class soon are good. And, with her ownin' a big retail coal
business over in Jersey, I expect Rupert can go on writin' his pomes as
free as he likes.

CHAPTER XIV

FORSYTHE AT THE FINISH

I expect I wouldn't have noticed Forsythe particular if it hadn't been
for Mrs. Robert. It takes all kinds, you know, to make up a week-end
house-party bunch; and in these days, when specimens of the razor-usin'
sex are so scarce--well, that's when half portions like this T. Forsythe
Hurd get by as full orders.

Besides, Mrs. Robert had meant well. Her idea was to make the Captain's
48-hour shore leave as gay and lively as possible. She'd had a hard time
roundin' up any of his friends, too. Hence Forsythe. One of these slim,
fine-haired, well manicured parlor Pomeranians, Forsythe is--the kind
who raves over the sandwiches and whispers perfectly killin' things to
the ladies as he flits about at afternoon teas.

We were up at the Ellinses', Vee and me, fillin' out at Saturday
luncheon, when Mr. Robert drifts in, about an hour behind schedule. You
know, he's commandin' one of these coast patrol boats. Some of 'em are
converted steam yachts, some are sea-goin' tugs, and then again some
are just old menhaden fish-boats painted gray with a few three-inch guns
stuck around on 'em casual. And this last is the sort of craft Mr.
Robert had wished on him.

Seems there'd been some weather off the Hook for the last few days, and,
with a fresh U-boat scare on, him and his reformed glue barge had been
havin' anything but a merry time. I don't know how the old fish-boat
stood it, but Mr. Robert showed that he'd been on more or less active
service. He had a three days' growth of stubble on his face, his navy
uniform was wrinkled and brine-stained, and the knuckles on one hand
were all barked up.

"Why, Robert!" says young Mrs. Ellins, as she wriggles out of the clinch
and gives him the once-over. "You're a sight."

"Sorry, my dear," says Mr. Robert; "but the beauty parlor on