"I say, young man," says he, grabbin' me by the elbow. "Wasn't I right about Louise?"
"You had the dope," says I. "Some queen, even if she is near the forty mark."
"And only imagine," he adds, "within a year or so she may be a grandmother!"
"That don't count these days," says I. "It's gettin' so you can hardly tell the grandmothers from the vamps."
And when I said that I expect I unloaded my whole stock of wisdom about women.
CHAPTER XII
WHEN THE CURB GOT GYPPED
It was what you might call a session of the big four. Anyway, that's the way I'd put it; for besides Old Hickory, planted solid in his mahogany swing chair with his face lookin' more'n ever like a two-tone cut of the Rock of Gibraltar, there was Mr. Robert, and Piddie and me. Some aggregation, I'll say. And it didn't need any jiggly message from the ouija board to tell that something important in the affairs of the Corrugated Trust might happen within the next few minutes. You could almost feel it in the air. Piddie did. You could see that by the nervous way he was twitchin' his lips.