"That bein' the case," says I, "here's where Angelica gets a treat," and we starts out to hunt for her, Chester's plan bein' to make me the excuse for the boxin' exhibit.
But Angelica didn't seem to be so easy to locate. First we strikes the music room, where a heavy weight gent lately come over from Warsaw is tearin' a thunder storm out of the southwest corner of the piano.
The room was full of folks; but nary sign of the girl with the eyes. Nor she wa'n't in the libr'y, where a four-eyed duck with a crop of rusty chin spinach was gassin' away about the sun spots, or something. Say, there was 'most any kind of brain stimulation you could name bein' handed out in diff'rent parts of that house; but Angelica wa'n't to any of 'em.
It was just by accident, as we was takin' a turn around one of the verandas facin' the water, that, we runs across a couple camped down in a corner seat under a big palm. The girl in pink radium silk was Angelica. And say, by moonlight she's a bunch' of honeysuckle! The other party was our old friend Curlylocks, and I has to grin at the easy way he has of pickin' out the best looker in sight and leadin' her off where she wouldn't have to listen to anybody but him. He has the po'try tap turned on full blast, and the girl is listenin' as pleased as if she had never heard anything better in her life.
HE HAS THE PO'TRY TAP TURNED ON FULL BLAST
"Confound him!" says Chester under his breath. "He's here again, is he?"
"Looks like this part of the house was gettin' crowded, Chetty," says I. "Let's back out."
"Hanged if I do!" says he, and proceeds to do the butt in act about as gentle as a truck horse boltin' through a show window. "Oh, you're here, Angelica!" he growls out. "I've been hunting all over the shop for you."