At ten o’clock Morris had taken the count and Bartlett was sitting with his dogs hanging out of the window to cool. Cutie, however, was still in the ring.
Our little twelve-cylinder butterfly had attracted a great deal of attention. As a dancer Cutie had Ruth St. Denis looking like a matzos peddler. St. Vitus himself would have copped fourth prize as a study in still life alongside of her. Nothing but a slow motion camera could do Cutie justice when she let her manners slip.
Among the side line sheiks who were K. Oing our quicksilver stepper was Herman Pupick, the celebrated censor and reformer. Herman was in disguise. He was wearing a large black mustache and a pair of green spats. From a short distance Herman looked like a laboratory specimen playing hookey.
Our hero had sneaked into the Garden in answer to the call of duty. Since his visit to Dr. Kukuheimer he had been working over-time censoring and reforming in a mad effort to put Cutie out of his mind.
While this Nature’s Blunder was taking notes on the low stuff happening before his one eye, he suddenly let out a stifled squawk. Cutie herself had sailed past him.
At first Herman thought it was all a dream. He pinched himself to see if he was awake. But he was dead from the neck both ways so it didn’t count. In the meantime, Cutie had discovered our hero. She penetrated his disguise at a glance. You can hide a light under a bushel but it is much harder for a pole-cat to conceal himself.
“My Gawd!” cried Cutie, turning in her tracks, “If it ain’t nature’s little nobleman, Mr. Pupick.”
Herman rose with the dignity of a lumbago victim.
“How do you do?” he replied in a hushed voice and held out his fin. Our heroine shook it and for a minute she thought somebody had slipped her a dead eel.
“I am grieved,” spoke Herman, “to see you pursuing your sinful course in this manner. I had hoped that our last meeting would cause you to see the error of your ways.”