Rupert nods and stares sad into his empty demi-tasse. And, say, when Rupert gets that way he's an appealin' cuss.
"See here, Rupert," says I; "if you got a call of that kind, would you come to the front and make a noise like a real poet?"
"Why," says he, "I suppose I ought to. It would help the sale of the book, and perhaps——"
"One alibi is enough," I breaks in. "Now, another thing: How'd you like to have me stage-manage this début of yours?"
"Oh, would you?" says he, beamin'.
"Providin' you'll follow directions," says I.
"Why, certainly," says Rupert. "Any suggestions that you may make——"
"Then we'll begin right now," says I. "You are to ditch that flossy floor-walker outfit of yours from this on."
"You mean," says Rupert, "that I am not to wear these clothes?"
"Just that," says I. "When you get to givin' mornin' readin's at the Plaza for the benefit of the Red Cross, you can dig 'em out again; but for the Purple Pup you got to be costumed different. Who ever heard of a goulash poet in a braid-bound cutaway and spats? Say, it's a wonder they let you live south of the Arch."