awsses.
Nothing like that! Only it does help, when Marjorie, the boss's married
daughter, has planned some social doin's, to get an invite like a
reg'lar guy.

What do you know too? It's dance! Not out at their country place,
either. She'd dragged Ferdie into town for a couple of weeks, and they'd
been stayin' at the Ellins's Fifth-ave. house, just visitin' and havin'
a good time. That is, Marjorie had. Ferdie, he spends his days mopin'
about the club and taggin' Mr. Robert.

"Better sneak off up to the Maison Maxixe with me," says I, "and brush
up on your hesitation."

A look of deep disgust from Ferdie. "I'm not a dancing man, you know,"
says he.

"Both feet Methodists, eh?" says I.

Ferdie stares puzzled. "It's only that I'm sure I'd look absurd," says
he.

"For once," says I, "you ain't so far from wrong. I expect you would."

Even that don't seem to please him, and he refuses peevish to trail
along and watch me blow myself to a pair of dancin' pumps. Gee! but this
society life runs into coin, don't it? I'd dropped into one of them
swell booterers and was beefin' away at the clerk about havin' to pay
six-fifty just for a pair of tango moccasins, when I hears someone on
the bench back of me remark casual:

"Nine dollars? Very well. Send them up to my hotel. Here's my card."

And as there's somethin' familiar about the voice I takes a peek over my
shoulder. But neither the braid-bound cutaway fittin' so snug at the
waist, nor the snappy fall derby snuggled down over the lop ears,
suggested any old friends. Not until he swings around and I gets a view
of that nosy profile do I gasp any gasps.

"Sizzlin' Stepsisters!" says I. "If it ain't Skeet Keyser!"

"I--ah--I beg pardon?" says he, doin' it cold and haughty. Blamed if I
don't think he meant to hand me the mistaken identity dope first off;
but after another glance he thinks better of it. "Oh, yes," says he,
sort of languid, "Torchy, isn't it?"

"Good guess, Skeet," says I, "seein' it's been all of two years since
you used to shove me my coffee reg'lar at the----"

"Yes, yes," he breaks in hasty; "but--I--ah--I have an appointment. Glad
to have seen you again."

"You act it," says I. And then, grabbin' him by the sleeve as he's
backin' off, I whispers, "What's the disguise, Skeet?"

"Really, now!" he protests indignant.

"Oh, very well, very well!" says I. "But how should I know if someone
has wished a life income on you? Congrats."

"Ah--er--th