"Torchy, you sunny-haired emblem of good luck!" he sings out. "What do you think! I've—got—her!"
"Eh!" says I. "The Balboa?"
"The Balboa be hanged!" says he. "No, no! Elsa—Miss Hampton, you know! She's mine, Torchy; she's mine!"
"S-s-s-sh!" says I, noddin' towards the other room. "Forget her a minute and brace yourself for a run-in with that gang of rag-chewers in there."
Does he? Say, without even stoppin' to size 'em up, he prances right in amongst 'em, free and careless.
"Why, hello, Ryder!" says he, handin' out a brisk shoulder-pat. "Ah, Mr. Larkin! Mr. Busbee! Well, well! You too, Hyde? Hail, all of you, and the top of the morning! Gentlemen," he goes on, shakin' hands right and left without noticin' how reluctant some of the palms came out, "I—er—I have a little announcement to make."
"Humph!" snorts old Busbee. "Have you?"
"Yes," says Mr. Robert, smilin' mushy. "I—er—the fact is, I am going to be married."
"The bonehead!" I whispers husky.
Old Lawson T. Ryder, the one with the bushy white eyebrows and the heavy dewlaps, he puffs out his cheeks and works that under jaw of his menacin'.