It was near an hour before he shows up, wearin' his bathrobe, an' lookin' as gay as a flower-shop window.
"On the level, now," says I, before he had a show to make any play at me, "if I'd known what a pinhead I was, I'd stayed in the cushion. How bad did I queer you?"
"Shorty," says he, shovin' out his hand, "you're a brick."
"An' cracked in the bakin', eh?" says I.
"But you don't understand," says he. "She's mine, Shorty! The Lady Evelyn—she's promised to marry me."
"Serves you right," says I, as we shakes hands. "But how does she allow to get back at me?"
"Oh, she knows all about everything now," says Jarvis, "and she wants to apologize."
Say, he wasn't stringin' me either. Blow me if she didn't. And sister? "You're horrid!" says she. "Perfectly horrid. So there!" Now can you beat 'em? But, as I've said before, when it comes to figurin' on what women or horses'll do, I'm a four-flusher.