Seems we'd just begun hearin' from the outside districts, though, or else they'd been savin' up their ideas for this particular afternoon and evenin'; for between then and nine o'clock no less'n half a dozen different parties dropped in, every last one of 'em with a name to register. And their contributions ranged all the way from Aaron to Xury. There were two rooters for Woodrow and one for Pershing.
Some of the neighbors were real serious about it. They told us what a time they'd had namin' some of their children, brought up cases where families had been busted up over such discussions, and showed us where their choice couldn't be beat. One merry bunch from the Country Club thought they was pullin' something mighty humorous when they stopped in to tell us how they'd held a votin' contest on the subject, and that the winnin' combination was, Paul Roger.
"After something you read on a cork, eh?" says I. "Much obliged. And I hope nobody strained his intellect."
"The idea!" says Vee, after they've rolled off. "Voting on such a thing at a club! Just as if Baby was a battleship, or a—a new moving-picture place. I think that's perfectly horrid of them."
"It was fresh, all right," says I. "But I expect we got to stand for such guff until we can give out that we've found a name that suits us. Lemme tackle that list again. Now, how would Russell do? Russell Ballard? No; too many l's and r's. Here's Chester. And I expect the boys would call him Chesty. Then there's Clyde. But there's steamship line by that name. What about Stanley? Oh, yes; he was an explorer."
I admit I was gettin' desperate about then. I was flounderin' around in a whole ocean of names, long ones and short ones, fancy and plain, yet I couldn't quite make up my mind. I'd mussed my hair, shed my collar, and scribbled over sheets and sheets of paper, without gettin' anywhere at all. And when I gave up and turned in about eleven-thirty, my head was so muddled I wouldn't have had the nerve to have named a pet kitten.
I must have just dozed off to sleep when I hears this bell ringin' somewhere. I couldn't quite make out whether it was a fire alarm, or the z's in the back of the dictionary goin' off, when Vee calls out that it's the 'phone.
I tumbles out and paws around for the extension.
"Wha-what?" says I. "What the blazes! Ye-uh. This is me. Wha-wha's matter?"
And then comes this gurgly voice at the other end of the wire. It's our old friend Amelia.