ination, yet the influence she exerted all
unwittingly over his life was inestimable. For it was for her, to
protect her, that he, Skippy Bedelle, conceived his magnum opus, the
Mosquito-Proof Socks.

* * * * *

The hour was eight, the day Sunday, the time the first clear week in
June. They sat together on the porch of the Kennedy, listening to the
sound of the Upper House singing rising clearly above the twang of
banjos across the campus from the esplanade.

The long twilight had set in, yet the afterglow hung brilliantly about
them. Skippy was balanced gingerly on the front edge of a rocker which
swayed perilously under him and added to his general discomfort. There
was a safe straight-backed stationary chair only ten feet away, but to
save his life he could think of no legitimate excuse for rising and
possessing it. If he leaned back the sharp upright collar, borrowed from
Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan, cut cruelly into his chin, and when he
craned forward the red choker tie (restored by Snorky in addition to the
agate cuff buttons) bulged forth in the most disconcerting and
unimpressive luxuriance.

"You've known Snorky, that is, Arthur, a long time, haven't you?" he
said desperately, breathing hard.

"Why, you funny boy! I'm his aunt," said Miss Dabtree, laughing.

"Oh, yes!" He felt he had offended her mortally, so to repair his social
blunder he said point-blank: "Gee! Some fellows are born lucky!"

"Now that is sweet of you," she said, giving him the full effect of her
heavenly smile. "But I'm afraid you're a terrible flatterer."

"Shall I tell her about the Foot Regulator?" thought Skippy, who felt
the need of confiding his life's ambition.

But at this moment Destiny arrived in the shape of a mosquito that
registered its coming on one of Skippy's open-work socks. Skippy shook
his foot uneasily, just enough to disturb the intruder but not enough to
attract Miss Dabtree's attention. The mosquito transferred its
operations to the other sock. Skippy, in order to conceal his
predicament, slowly crossed his legs and then hastily uncrossed them,
not being quite sure of the etiquette of such a position.

The mosquito, pursuing its way, lighted on the graceful silver-sheened
stocking which Skippy had been contemplating furtively for the last ten
minutes with a sudden realization that the feminine ankle has certain
strange sentimental values utterly different from those for w