"All right, all right—but put your mind on other things," said Skippy nervously.
He disengaged an armful from the bottom of his trunk and spreading it on the window seat, contemplated the touch of many feminine hands with an expression that was as cynically blasé as that of the traditional predatory bachelor. Whenever Skippy found a mood too elusive to be expressed in words, his lips instinctively resorted to boyhood's musical outlet. His eyes traveled appraisingly over sofa cushions, picture frames, knitted neckties and flags that represent those select institutions where young ladies are finished off. He began to whistle,
"I don't want to play in your yard,
I don't like you any more . . ."
"My, you're a cold-hearted brute," said Snorky, in whom perhaps the spirit of envy was strong.
"I am," said Skippy unctuously, "and I am going to be brutier, take a tip from yours truly, Moony."
He disposed of half a dozen cushions, draped two flags and carefully placed three photographs amid the gallery on his bureau.
"Do you think that's honorable?" said Snorky resentfully.
"Scalps, that's all!" said Skippy with a grandiloquent wave of his hand.
"I get you. Heart whole and fancy free etcetera etceteray?"
"Every time."