"But during all that time didn't she say anything about herself, or give you any hint?" I goes on.
Ernie can't remember that she did.
"What was all the chat about?" I demands.
"Oh, everything," says Ernie. "She—she said she'd been looking for me long timesh. Knew me by—by my eyesh."
"How touching!" says I. "That must have been during the clinch."
"Yes," says Ernie. "But nexsh time——"
"Say," I breaks in, "if you don't know what her name is, or where she lives, how do you figure on a next time?"
"Thash so," says Ernie. "Too bad."
"Still," says I, "the kiss stringency in your young career has been lifted, hasn't it? And now it's about time I fixed you up and towed you out to a hotel where you can hit the feathers for about ten hours. My hunch is that a pitcher of ice water is going to look mighty good to you in the morning. And maybe by tomorrow noon you can remember more details about Louise than you can seem to dig up now."
You can't always tell about these birds who surprise you that way. I was only an hour late in getting to the office myself next day, but I finds Ernie at his desk looking hardly any the worse for wear, and grinding away as usual. He looks a little sheepish when I ask him if Louise has 'phoned him yet.