He drew out of his pocket an envelope and held it away from Dickie.
"You're trying to job me, Jim,"—but Dickie had his head coaxingly on one side and his face was pink.
"I'll give it to you if you can guess the sender."
"Babe?"
"Wrong."
"Girlie?"
"Well, sir, it ain't Girlie's fist—not the fist she uses when she drops me billy-doos."
Dickie's eyes fell. He turned aside in his chair and stopped the grinding of the graphophone. He made no further guess. Jim, with his dimple deepening, tossed the small paper into the air and caught it again deftly.
"It's from the young lady from Noo York who's helping Mrs. Hudson," he said. "I guess she's kind of wishful for a beau. She's not much of a looker Girlie tells me."
"Haven't you met her yet, Jim?" Dickie's hands were in his pockets, but his eyes followed the gyrations of the paper.