s, was Miss Jennie Tupper, the girl with the
velvety eyes, and at her side, as icily correct as when the night before
she had crushed Snorky's floundering attempt at lady-killing, her sister
Margarita.

CHAPTER XXXI

SHIRT STUDS AS CUPID'S MESSENGER

AFTER the room had returned to place Skippy rallied, took the
introductions with preternatural stiffness, and gravitated to Snorky.
The white shirt front in the most unaccountable manner had swollen to
alarming dimensions, the coat tails must be dragging on the floor. His
collar cut under his imprisoned neck and his large white hands, longing
for sheltering pockets, seemed to float before him like inflated
balloons. If his were complete manhood,--oh for a soft shirt and a
turned down collar!

"Kill it," said Snorky under his breath.

"What's wrong?"

"Kill that flag of liberty, you chump!" said Snorky, glowering at the
flaming edge of the silk bandana handkerchief which Skippy was sporting
at his breast pocket.

"What's wrong with that? Every one does it."

"Wrong! Look around you."

Skippy did so and surreptitiously extinguished the bandana.

"Holy Mike, we're in for it," said Snorky. "Do you know who they are?"

"The girls?"

"Daughters of the Presbyterian minister, strict as nails--Sunday school
and mission stuff. Oh Lord!"

"Pretend you knew it all along."

"And that other stuff? The dead game sporting life?"

"Stick to your guns!" said Skippy desperately.

The next moment he was at table, between Miss Caroline Bedelle and the
blonde Margarita, while across the table the soft velvety eyes of Jennie
looked at him sadly and reproachfully.

"Good gracious, Jack," said Snorky's sister, staring at him. "I never,
never would have known you. You've gained twenty pounds."

"It's the shirt," thought Skippy, glancing down at the bulging front
that gave him the torso of a wrestler. Then he began to wonder which was
the owner of the still slightly moist tie. But soon all discomforts,
even the intricate maze of forks and knives, were forgotten before the
alarming problem of the shirt front. When he sat upright, stiff as a
ramrod, it was relatively quiescent, but the moment he relaxed or bent
forward to eat it bulged forth as though working on a spring, until a
lurking horror that it would escape altogether began to possess him. He
crept forward on his chair and balanced on the edge, trying to mitigate
the conspicuous rigidity of his pose by a nonchala