"A which?" says I.
"Come here while I whisper," says she.
I expect that's why it don't sound more'n half nutty, too, delivered that way. For with Vee's chin on my shoulder, and some of that silky straw-colored hair brushin' my face, and a slim, smooth arm hooked chummy through one of mine—well, say; she could make a tabulated bank statement listen like one of Grantland Rice's baseball lyrics. Do I fall for her proposition? It's almost a jump.
"All right," says I. "Not that I can figure how it's goin' to work out, but if that's your idea of throwin' the switch on her, I'm right behind you. Just give me the proper cues, that's all."
"Wait until I hear from my telegram," says Vee. "I'll let you know."
I didn't get the word until Tuesday afternoon, when she 'phones down.
"He's coming," says Vee. "Isn't he the dear, though? So we'll make it to-morrow. Everything you can possibly think of, remember."
As a starter I'd spotted the elevator-boy up at Auntie's. Andrew Zink is his full name, and he's a straight-haired smoke from the West Indies. We'd exchanged a few confidential comments on Miss Burr, and I'd discovered she was just about as popular with him as she was with the rest of us.
"But for to-morrow, Andy," says I, slippin' him a whole half dollar, "we're goin' to forget it. See? It'll be, 'Oh, yes, Miss Burr.' and 'Certainly, Miss Burr,' all day long, not omitting the little posie you're goin' to offer her first thing' in the mornin'."
Andy tucks away the half and grins.