“You are safe for the time being,” Cutie answered, “if the posse don’t locate our tracks.”
Herman shuddered and realized that he was covered with blood. He looked like a tomato somebody had thrown away.
“What has happened?” he groaned.
“Plenty,” our little first aid replied. “You are certainly a rough worker. Where was you raised, in a spittoon? It is too bad you left your pick at home on the mantlepiece, or you might have been more successful in your love making.”
“Love making,” moaned Herman. “Oh, my God, what have I done?”
“Yes,” continued Cutie, “we are dancing pretty when all of a sudden right in front of everybody you let out a terrible yell and fasten your horse teeth in my ear. Then, before I can get a good hold, you pull a half nelson on me and I am down for the count when the bouncers step in. One of them whams you on the skull with a near beer bottle and the other does a buck and wing on your neck. But little Herman, the Boy Scout, won’t give up. All you do is sink your teeth in my shoulder and make noises like a basket full of hungry pooches. Well, they finally tore you from my clutches after the riot call had been sent in and they had you stretched out on the curbing waiting for the booby wagon when this taxi creeps into sight and I shove you in and here we are, fleeing the angry posse which is threatening to dip you in oil and set fire to you without further argument.”
When Herman Pupick heard this he grabbed hold of his head and moaned like a lost soul.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Well,” said Cutie, “we will stop first at my little love nest and lay up for a few repairs. You look as if you had just escaped from a lunatic asylum full of Swiss bell ringers. After we have restored some of your face and removed the rest of it we will make plans for the future.”
A half hour later Herman was lying on a couch in a room that smelled like the eau de cologne department of Marshall Field’s. Our heroine had bandaged him up till he looked like a second hand patch work quilt.