out until he could see Barnegat light over the
stern."

"Gee!" says I. "That's one way of losin' a better days' proposition.
And in case any others like him turns up, Mr. Robert, have you got any
more old dress suits?"

"If I have," says he, "I shall burn them."

CHAPTER XII

THE GLAD HAIL FOR TORCHY

I'll say this for Aunty: She's doin' her best. About all she's omitted
is lockin' Vee in a safety deposit vault and forgettin' the combination.

Say, you'd most think I was as catchin' as a case of measles. I wish
it was so; for once in awhile, in spite of Aunty, Vee gets exposed.
That's all the good it does, though. What's a few minutes' chat with
the only girl that ever was? It's a wonder we don't have to be
introduced all over again. That would be the case with some girls.
But Vee! Say, lemme put you wise--Vee's different! Uh-huh! I found
that out all by myself. I don't know just where it comes in, or how,
but she is.

All of which makes it just so much worse when she and Aunty does the
summer flit. Course, I saw it comin' 'way back early in June, and then
the first thing I know they're gone. I gets a bulletin now and
then,--Lenox, the Pier, Newport, and so on,--sometimes from Vee,
sometimes by readin' the society notes. Must be great to have the
papers keep track of you, the way they do of Aunty. And it's so
comfortin' to me, strayin' lonesome into a Broadway movie show of a hot
evening to know that "among the debutantes at a tea dance given in the
Casino by Mrs. Percy Bonehead yesterday afternoon was Miss Verona
Hemmingway." Oh, sure! Say, how many moves am I from a tea dance--me
here behind the brass rail at the Corrugated, with Piddie gettin'
fussy, and Old Hickory jabbin' the buzzer?

And then, just when I'm peevish enough to be canned and served with
lamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. "It's
nice up here," says she; "but awfully stupid. VEE." That's all--just
a picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame if
there'd been one handy.

As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazes
longin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,--one of these low,
wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof and
yellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the waves
frothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is the
name of the place printed underneath.

"Nice, but stupid, eh