"Ain't goin' so soon, are you," says I, "without breakin' a few more hearts?"
"I—I'm goin' to get out of here!" says he, his teeth chattery. He'd grabbed his silk lid and was makin' a dash for the front door when I stopped him.
"Not that way, for the love of soup!" says I. "They'll be layin' for you there. Why not bluff it out and cut up with some of the other queens?"
"I'm not feeling well," says he. "I—I'm going, I tell you!"
"If you insist, then," says I, "perhaps I can sneak you out. Here, this way. Now slide in behind that portière until I find one of the maids. Oh, here's one now. S-s-s-t! That you, Maggie? Well, smuggle Mr. Keyser out the back way, will you? And if you don't want to witness bloodshed, do it quick!"
I tipped her the wink over his shoulder, and the last glimpse I had of Skeet he was bein' hustled and shoved towards the back way by willin' hands.
By the time I gets back into the ballroom I finds Marjorie right in the midst of a fam'ly court martial. She's makin' a full confession.
"Of course I hired him," she's sayin' to Brother Robert. "Why? Because I've been a wall flower at too many dances, and I'm tired of it. No, I don't know who he is, I'm sure; but he's a perfectly lovely dancer. I wonder where he's disappeared to?"
Which seemed to be my cue to report. "Mr. Keyser presents his compliments," says I, "and begs to be excused for the rest of the evenin' on account of feelin' suddenly indisposed. He says you can send him that fifteen by mail, if you like."
"Well, the idea!" gasps Marjorie.