"Mrs. Cleaver! My dear lieutenant! I'll thank you not to couple my name with that of this—this person! What ever made you think I was his wife? I wouldn't marry him if he were the last man on earth—"
And then Lancelot Biggs did a strange thing! For a startled moment he stared at Helen MacDowell incredulously. Then he loosed a terrific whoop. And I don't mean whisper.
"Eeee-yow!" he howled. "You and Hank aren't married?"
"Why, of course not!"
"You—you haven't any children?"
Helen turned brick-red.
"After all, Lieutenant—" she began stiffly. "But, really!"
I don't think Biggs heard her. For he had leaped to Cleaver's side, was pounding him enthusiastically upon the back and shoulders.
"It's all right, then! You understand—it's all right! Get those brain-cells to work, Hank, old boy! It's in the bag! Eeee-yowee!"
And Hank Cleaver, from the depths of a brown study, said suddenly,