"I say," he says, "didn't Bob come out, too?"
"No," says I. "I think he and Mrs. Ellins have a dinner party on in town."
"Bother!" says Babe. "I was counting on him for an hour or so of billiards and another go at talking up the cruise. We'll land him yet, eh, Torchy? Hop in and I'll run you out home."
So I climbs aboard, Babe opens the cut-out, and we make a skyrocket start.
"How about swinging around the country club and back through the middle road? No hurry, are you?" he asks.
"Not a bit," says I, glancin' at the speedometer, which was touchin' fifty.
"Nor I," says Babe. "I'm spending my annual week-end with Sister Mabel, you know. Good old scout, Mabel, but I can't say I enjoy visiting there. Runs her house too much for the children. Only three of 'em, but they're all over the place—climbing on you, mauling you, tripping you up. Nurses around, too. Regular kindergarten effect. And the youngsters are always being bathed, or fed, or put to sleep. So I try to keep out of the way until dinner."
"I see," says I. "You ain't strong for kids?"
"Oh, I don't mind 'em when they're kept in their place," says Babe. "But when they insist on giving you oatmealy kisses, or paw you with sticky fingers—no, thanks. Can't tell Mabel that, though. She seems to think they are all little wonders. And Dick is just as bad—rushes home early every afternoon so he can have half an hour with 'em. Huh!"
"Maybe you'll feel different," says I, "if you ever collect a family of your own."