“Eighteen inches under the cover,” says I.
The writer looked at me.
“Does that allow room on the breast for a wreath of calla lilies?” he inquired solemnly.
“Maybe you better make it twenty inches,” I corrected, not wanting to crush the funeral bouquet.
Fatty got away from me then.
“Don’t git fresh,” says he, scowling, “or you’ll find yourself playing a harp.”
Poppy held his pencil ready.
“How many handles do you want on it?” says he.
“I’ll put a ‘handle’ on your nose, if you don’t shut up.”
“Like your own, huh?” I put in.