"Yes; but he said he'd rather have a girl tell him she's workin' like I did than to have her stuff him."
"That's what I used to say; they find out, anyway."
"Sure they do; the only time I told a guy I didn't work was that time with you."
"That time you told Mr. Evans you was goin' to school?"
"Yes; and he up and said: 'Yes; you go to school! You wrestle with pots, you do, sis.'"
They laughed reminiscently.
"We sure used to have swell times together, Lulu."
"Swell times—well, I guess yes! I never did have the same good times with no chum of the department since you left."
They descended to meet Mr. Polly in the lower hall. That gentleman rose from the hat-tree. Four fingers of a tan glove protruded with studied intent from the breast-pocket of his coat; his trousers and sleeves were creased as definitely as paper. Mr. Polly's features were strictly utilitarian—it was his boast that by a peculiar muscular contraction he could waggle his ears with fidelity to asinine effect.
His mouth was of such proportions that the slightest smile revealed his teeth back to the molars. He smiled as he rose from the hat-tree.