“But––but–––”
“It’s no good. There aren’t any buts to this. She is here. She is expecting Sol Hanson to be a fine looking fellow like me, and the poor thing is going to get a pie-faced, slop-eyed individual like yourself.
“Now, you’re expecting a pretty little blonde and you’re getting,––well,––something totally different.”
Jim slapped Sol on the back.
“Too bad! Take your medicine, though, old man! Be a sport! You’re distinctly up against it.”
Phil was metaphorically in knots by the furnace fire.
Sol rushed for his coat.
“No dam-fear!” he cried. “I go to coop first. She ain’t been going to run any bluff on Sol Hanson,––see! You tell her, and her carrots-hair, and her one eye, and her three dam-kids, to go plumb toboggan to hell.
“I come back sometime––maybe.”
Sol made a dart for the front door. Then he changed his mind and made for the back one. But he guessed the 201 wrong one––or, perhaps after all, it was the right one.