"You're tickled to death to see me, ain't you?" she asks, pullin' the pout that formerly helped sell the magazines.
To be level with you, I was—mad and all.
"Why, dearie!" I remarks, kissin' her. "You know I—"
"Easy with the oil!" she cuts me off. "Get on your hat and coat; we're goin' right down to Grand Central Station."
"Don't you think it's liable to tire you, honey," I asks her, "runnin' back and forth from Lakewood like this?"
"I'm not goin' to Lakewood, Stupid," she says. "We're goin' down to meet Alex Hanley—of course you remember him?"
I threw in the self-starter on the old brain, but there was nothin' doin'.
"No!" I says. "To come right out with it—I don't. I realize though that he must be a lu-lu when we're goin' down and meet him at the station. What did he do—lick Dempsey?"
"Idiot!" says the wife, callin' me by her favorite pet name. "He's my cousin."
Oh, boy!