But he made no protest. Philosophers never do. He did not speak. He did not even cast upon her a reproachful look, nor one of anger upon his rival. He only made one little moan with a faint far-offness in the vibration, and then for the second time the unhappy Mystic lay as one dead at the feet of his affinity.
“Well, isn’t that fierce?” and Imogene looked on with sweet womanly sympathy while Bill, the now triumphant lover, lifted Lonnie like he was a pigskin and hoisted him into the auto. “Sure thing,” said Bill, joyously. “He got it in the neck that time. Come, Petsy, we’ve got to honk some. We must revive him on the Q. T.
“I’ll take him home with me and give him about four fingers with ginger on the side. That’ll fetch him.”
Imogene looked her admiration of Bill’s generosity, and then, gathering her draperies and snuggling down by her future Chauffeur, she sighed a little as she looked upon the inert gentleman on the back seat—saying more to herself than to Bill, “Isn’t it a pity he has fits?”
Oh, wild and wooly Wizard of the West;
Worthy, winsome worker of the Test;
Wakeful, watchful, wise one, whiskerless;
Weird and woozy wight, all unexpressed.