"S-s-sh!" says Angelica, holding up one finger and him off with the other hand.
"Yes, I see," says Chester; "but——"
"Oh, please run away and don't bother!" says she. "That's a good boy, now Chester."
"Oh, darn!" says Chester.
That was the best he could do too, for they don't even wait to see us start. Angelica gives us a fine view of her back hair, and Mr. Curlylocks begins where he left off, and spiels away. It was a good deal the same kind of rot he had shoved at me on the train,—all about hearts and lovin' and so on,—only here he throws in business with the eyelashes, and seems to have pulled out the soft vocal stops.
Chester stands by for a minute, tryin' to look holes through 'em, and then he lets me lead him off.
"Now what do you think of that?" says he, makin' a face like he'd tasted something that had been too long in the can.
"Why," says I, "it's touchin', if true. Who's the home destroyer with the vaseline voice and the fuzzy nut?"
"He calls himself Sylvan Vickers," says Chester. "He's a poet—a sappy, slushy, milk and water poet. Writes stuff about birds and flowers and love, and goes around spouting it to women."
"Why," says I, "he peeled off a few strips for me, comin' up on the cars, and I though it was hot stuff."