“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t know it was true,” declared Terry solemnly.
“You’ve the great gift of stating things clearly, Terry,” remarked Bill Bolton. “In other words, why must you put in your foot every time you open your mouth? Dorothy, my girl, you said your piece nicely.”
“I’m not your girl, thank heaven! If I was at all interested, I’d certainly burst into tears. Please don’t try to be humorous—it’s painful, positively painful.”
“I guess I’d better begin my story,” George decided diplomatically. “Or somebody’s likely to start throwing things. Where do you want me to start?”
“Like this,” volunteered Terry, setting his empty coffee cup on its saucer. “‘I was born an orphan at the age of four, of poor but dishonest parents....’”
“‘And until the age of thirteen and three-quarters, could only walk sideways with my hair parted in the middle,’” came George’s quick follow up.
“He’s all right,” decreed Bill. “Let him speak his piece, gang—this is going to be good.”
“Of all the conceited nerve!” exclaimed Dorothy.
“Do shut up and give George a chance,” broke in Betty heatedly. “I want to hear about it—and this is a serious matter, I—”
“Now you’re the one who’s stopping him,” accused her chum. “For goodness’ sake, get going, George—we’ve got to drive to New Canaan some time tonight.”