"What can the child mean, Abe?"
"Don't ask me," he answered. "Undo the present and see."
They loosened blue ribbons and wrappings of soft paper, and disclosed a link of bologna sausage.
Maddening? It might have been, if Hildegarde had not thought to inclose a page from the Daily Southern Californian, upon which, ringed with pencil marks, was a bit of miscellany headed, "Morel Prinsaples."
They read it through to the conclusion:
So as I say let us all stick up for our Morel Prinsaples like my
Father come what may.—Willie Downey in Ashland (N.J.) Bee.
"Why!—why!—it's—it's me!" cried Mrs. Wilbram. "I did telephone to Mr. Myers for two pounds of bologna and a dog bone—on the night we dined at the Trevelyans'!"
"It comes mighty close to libel," fumed Wilbram.
"How do they dare! You must see Worthington Oakes about this, Abe."
"I certainly will," he vowed.