They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the pantry windows.
“Whoopee!” shouted Petticoat, “here's where I take the helm! Cut out the rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest.”
It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their terrible aestheticism at last?
Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. “Oh,” she cried, astounded. “I wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just eating what I wanted.”
“You're a dear,” Marigold Leathersham said to her. “I'm going to love you. How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing.”
“Yes, he does.” Warble stated. “At least, he says so.”
“He's a truthful man,” Marigold declared, “you'd know that just to look at him. There's something in his face just now—”
“It's pie,” said Warble, “he's very fond of it.”
To Warble's great delight there were enough pies left for her final entertainment.
“Folks,” she said, “this is a Mack Sennett party, and it wouldn't be complete without throwing custard pies. So we will choose sides.”