home from the office here the
other evenin'. "What becomes of people when they're dispossessed--when
they're put out on the street with their things, you know?"

"Why," says I, "they generally stay out until they can find a place
where they can move in. Has anybody been threatenin' to chuck us out for
not----"

"Silly!" says she. "It's the Battous."

"Don't know 'em," says I.

"But surely," goes on Vee, "you've seen him. He's that funny little old
Frenchman who's always dodging in and out of the elevator with
odd-looking parcels under his arm."

"Oh, yes!" says I. "The one with the twinklin' eyes and the curly
iron-gray hair, who always bows so polite and shoots that bon-shure
stuff at you. Him?"

It was.

It seems the agent had served notice on 'em that mornin'. They'd been
havin' a grand pow-wow over it in the lower vestibule, when Vee had come
along and got mixed up in the debate. She'd seen Mrs. Battou doin' the
weep act on hubby's shoulder while he was tryin' to explain and makin'
all sorts of promises. I expect the agent had heard such tales before.
Anyway, he was kind of rough with 'em--at which Vee had sailed in and
told him just what she thought.

"I'm sure you would have done the same, Torchy," says she.

"I might," says I, "if he hadn't been too husky. But what now?"

"I told them not to worry a bit," says Vee, "and that when you came home
you would tell them what to do. You will, won't you, Torchy?"

Course, there was only one real sensible answer to that. Who was I, to
step in casual and ditch a court order? But say, when the only girl in
the universe tackles you with the clingin' clinch, hints that you're a
big, brainy hero who can handle any proposition that's batted up to
you--well, that's no time to be sensible.

"I'll do any foolish little thing you name," says I.

"Goody!" says Vee. "I just knew you would. We'll go right up and----"

"Just a sec," says I. "Maybe I'd better have a private talk with this
Mr. Battou first off. Suppose you run up and jolly the old lady while he
comes down here."

She agrees to that, and three minutes later I've struck a pose which is
sort of a cross between that of a justice of the supreme court and a
bush league umpire, while M. Leon Battou is sittin' on the edge of a
chair opposite, conversin' rapid with both hands and a pair of eloquent
eyebrows.

"But consider, monsieur," he's sayin'. "Only because of owing so little!
Can they not wait until I hav