"I repeat," Bag Ears bleated plaintively. "Leave us blow this joint. It ain't healthy here."
"He's right," Joy said. "A lot of explanation is wanting. There are some people we've got to catch up with. Let's go."
With that, she drew Bag Ears and me toward the French doors through which had recently passed some of the fastest moving objects in this or any other world. We made the flag-stone terrace above the drive where Bag Ears cordially grasped my hand and said,
"Well, it was a nice party, folks, and if I ever get spliced I'll sure give you a invite and I sure had a swell time and remember me to your aunt when she wakes up and—"
He was backing down the steps when Joy cut in with, "Bag Ears. Don't be so rude. You're in no hurry."
Bag Ears slowed down and allowed us to catch up with him. He gave us a sickly smile. "That's where you're wrong, babe."
"Bag Ears," Joy went on. "I heard you whisper to Homer that you know who that blonde is."
"What blonde? Me? I don't know nothing about no blonde no-how."
"Don't hedge. I mean the girl who was assisting Uncle Peter behind the bar. Who is she, really?"
"Oh—her. Everybody knows her. She's Hands McCaffery's moll. He likes 'em blonde and—"