The House of Torchy

'Don't!' says Vee. 'You'll spill the coffee.'

Say, I thought I'd taken a sportin' chance now and then before; but I was only kiddin' myself. Believe me, this gettin' married act is the big plunge. Uh-huh! Specially when it's done offhand and casual, the way we went at it.
My first jolt is handed me early in the mornin' as we piles off the mountain express at this little flag stop up in Vermont, and a roly-poly gent in a horse-blanket ulster and a coonskin cap with a badge on it steps up and greets me cheerful.
Ottasumpsit Inn? says he.
Why, I expect so, says I, if that's the way you call it. Otto—Otta—Yep, that listens something like it.
You see, Mr. Robert had said it only once, when he handed me the tickets, and I hadn't paid much attention.
Aye gorry! says the chirky gent, gatherin' up our hand luggage. Guess you're the ones we're lookin' for. Got yer trunk-checks handy?
With that I starts fishin' through my pockets panicky. I finds a railroad folder, our marriage certificate, the keys to the studio apartment I'd hired, the box the ring came in, and——
Gosh! says I, sighin' relieved. Sure I got it.
The driver grins good-natured and stows us into a two-seated sleigh, and off we're whirled, bells jinglin', for half a mile or so through the stinging mornin' air. Next thing I know, I'm bein' towed up to a desk and a hotel register is shoved at me. Just like an old-timer, I dashes off my name—Richard T. Ballard.