"You haven't got to tell her age if she is over thirty, Billy," said Larry. "Her age is sacred after that, you know."
"And don't tell us even if she has false teeth," came from Sam.
"And it doesn't make any real difference whether her hair is her own or not."
"It's hers if it is paid for," said Tom. "You don't suppose a girl that Billy would fall in love with would wear tresses that were stolen?"
"And to think she may be fat!" sighed Sam. "I hope she doesn't weigh over two hundred, Willy."
"Oh dear me!" cried the dude, in desperation. "I want you to remember——"
"That she is yours and yours only," finished Tom. "Yes, nobody shall walk in your corn patch, Bill—not over my dead body. But tell us—secretly if you must—does she wear a number eight shoe or a twelve?"
"If you don't stop your fooling——" gasped the dude.
"He is going to keep his dreadful secrets to himself," cried Tom, mournfully. "Alack! and too bad! But never mind, we'll all come to the wedding, Tubblets, and bring lemons if you say so?"
"Who said I was going to get married?"