"Aye gorry!" says the chirky gent, gatherin' up our hand luggage. "Guess you're the ones we're lookin' for. Got yer trunk-checks handy?"
With that I starts fishin' through my pockets panicky. I finds a railroad folder, our marriage certificate, the keys to the studio apartment I'd hired, the box the ring came in, and——
"Gosh!" says I, sighin' relieved. "Sure I got it."
The driver grins good-natured and stows us into a two-seated sleigh, and off we're whirled, bells jinglin', for half a mile or so through the stinging mornin' air. Next thing I know, I'm bein' towed up to a desk and a hotel register is shoved at me. Just like an old-timer, I dashes off my name—Richard T. Ballard.
The mild-eyed gent with the close-cropped Vandyke and the gold-rimmed glasses glances over at Vee.
"Ah—er—I thought Mrs. Ballard was with you!" says he.
"That's so; she is," says I, grabbin' the pen again and tackin' "Mr. and Mrs." in front of my autograph.
That's why, while we're fixin' up a bit before goin' down to breakfast, I has this little confidential confab with Vee.
"It's no use, Vee," says I. "I'm a rank amateur. We might just as well have rice and confetti all over us. I've made two breaks already, and I'm liable to make more. We can't bluff 'em."
"Who wants to?" says Vee. "I'm not ashamed of being on my honeymoon; are you?"