“Why the shredded wheat over the kisser?” inquired our heroine eyeing the false mustache. “Take ’em off, poison ivy, before somebody throws you into a tank with the rest of the walruses.”
Our hero felt a little dizzy but his duty remained plain.
“It would give me great pleasure,” he said, “to take you out of this place and bring you home to your parents.”
Cutie felt a sudden curiosity.
“Come on, Mr. Pupick,” she invited him, “let’s crawl.”
Herman found himself oozing out of his chair. He was in a trance. He made a last effort and tried to steady himself by thinking of Mrs. Pupick. But all he could remember about her was that her knees looked like a couple of pineapples.
Our hero crossed his good eye and let himself go. The music was raising hell with his complexes. When Cutie put her arms around him she thought she had grabbed hold of a sack of cement.
“You are making a mistake,” our heroine grunted, “the idea is that we are going to have a dance, not a tug of war.”
But Herman was beyond the power of reason. As his smeller leaned against Cutie’s corn colored hair, he let out one gasp and swallowed his false mustache. When he felt our little mamma’s shimmy begin to shake, Herman thought a bolt of lightning was playing a tattoo on him. For a few minutes this flat wheeled caboose of gloom couldn’t figure out which part of him was his feet.
“What’s the matter?” Cutie whispered, “you are behaving like a clam diver with the hiccoughs. Have you lost control?”