"Come on, Bishop," says I. "There's only one cure for a complaint of that kind, and it looks like Ferdy was bound to take it."
We was just startin' for the deck, when the door was blocked by a steward luggin' in another sheaf of roses, and followed by a couple of middle aged, jolly lookin' gents, smokin' cigars and marchin' arm in arm. One was a tall, well built chap in a silk hat; the other was a short, pussy, ruby beaked gent in French flannels and a Panama.
"Hello, sweety!" says the tall one.
"Peekaboo, dearie!" sings out the other.
"Dick! Jimmy!" squeals Madam Brooklini, givin' a hand to each of 'em, and leavin' Ferdy holdin' the air. "Oh, how delightfully thoughtful of you!"
"Tried to ring in old Grubby, too," says Dick; "but he couldn't get away. He chipped in for the flowers, though."
"Dear old Grubby!" says she. "Let's see, he was my third, wasn't he?"
"Why, dearie!" says Dicky boy, "I was Number Three. Grubby was your second."
"Really!" says she. "But I do get you so mixed. Oh!" and then she remembers Ferdy. "Ducky, dear," she goes on, "I do want you to know these gentlemen—two of my former husbands."
"Wha-a-at!" gasps Ferdy, his eyes buggin' out.