iest affair you could
imagine; bright orange and black, and half an inch thick.

"Whiffo!" says I. "That is something to have wished onto you! Looks
like a caterpillar in a dream."

"That's right," says Ferdy. "It's been a perfect nightmare to me ever
since Marjorie bought it. But I can't hurt her feelings by refusing to
wear it. And this silly hat too--a scarf instead of a band!"

It's almost pathetic the way Ferdy holds the lid off at arm's length
and gazes indignant at it.

"Draped real sweet, ain't it?" says I. "But most of the smart chappies
are wearin' 'em that way, you know."

"Not this sickly green shade, though," says Ferdy plaintive. "I wish
Marjorie wouldn't get such things for me. I--I've always been rather
particular about my hats and ties. I like them quiet, you understand."

"You would get married, though," says I. "But, say, can't you do a
duck by changing after you leave home?"

Seems the idea hadn't occurred to Ferdy. "But how? Where?" says he,
brightenin' up.

"In the limousine as you're drivin' down to the station," says I. "You
could keep an extra outfit in the car."

"By Jove!" says Ferdy. "Then I could change again on the way home,
couldn't I? And if Marjorie didn't know, she wouldn't----"

"You've surrounded the plot of the piece," says I. "Now go to it.
There's a gents' furnisher down in the arcade."

He's halfway out to the elevator before it occurs to him that he ain't
responded with any grateful remarks; so back he comes to tell how much
obliged he is.

"And, Torchy," he adds, "you know you haven't been out to see baby yet.
Why, you must see little Ferdinand!"

"Ye-e-es, I been meanin' to," says I, maybe not wildly enthusiastic.
"I expect he's quite a kid by this time."

"Eleven months lacking four days," says Ferdy, his face beamin'.
"Wait! I want to show you his latest picture. Really wonderful
youngster, I tell you."

So I has to inspect a snapshot that Ferdy produces from his pocketbook;
and, while it looks about as insignificant as most of 'em, I pumps up
some gushy remarks which seem to make a hit with Ferdy.

"Couldn't you come out Sunday?" says he.

"'Fraid not," says I. "In fact, I'm booked up for quite a spell."

"Too bad," says Ferdy, "for we're almost alone now,--only Peggy and
Jane--my little nieces, you know--and Miss Hemmingway, who----"

"Vee?" says I, comin' straight up on my toes. "Say, Ferdy, I think I
can break away Sunday, after