"Come out with me then," said the Ooley-cow. "Poindexter and Sprott will be there too. Yesterday afternoon I played Poindexter for the lunches to-day. Holed a long putt on the seventeenth green, and stuck him. Come along, and we'll make Poindexter give a party—for once."
"It can't be done," said I. "Uncle Billy doesn't give parties."
"We'll make him give one," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "We'll insist on it."
"Insist if you want to," said I, "but you'll never get away with it."
"Meet me here at noon," said the Ooley-cow. "If Poindexter doesn't give the party I will."
I wasn't exactly keen for the Ooley-cow's society, but I accepted his invitation to ride out to the club in his car. He regaled me with a dreary monologue, descriptive of the Heidelberg of America, and solemnly assured me that the pretty girls one sees in Chicago are all from Dubuque.
It was twelve-thirty when we arrived at the Country Club, and Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were there ahead of us.
"Poindexter," said Perkins, "you are giving a party to-day, and I have invited our friend here to join us."
Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott, and both laughed uproariously. Right there was where I should have detected the unmistakable odour of a rodent. It was surprise number one.
"Dee-lighted!" cackled Uncle Billy. "Glad to have another guest, ain't we, Sprott?"