“Where are your Moravian grandparents?” demanded the Albany Lamb.
“Don’t know,” said the Goat, unfilially. “They died before I was born. They weren’t Moravians, anyway.”
“See here!” The Boston Lamb jerked him to his feet with one hand and assaulted him with the other. “What was that stuff you were reeling off to my cousin? As her nearest male relative, geographically speaking, I insist on an explanation.”
“That was Japanese,” said the Goat, with a grin, and immediately favored the crowd with several more doubtfully emphatic remarks in the same tongue.
“I pass!” said the Boston Lamb, meekly. “But one thing more. Are you engaged to my cousin?”
“How very impertinent!” returned the Goat. “Why didn’t you ask her?”
The Boston Lamb inserted four determined fingers between the Goat’s collar and the back of his neck, and in view of the attitude of mind and body of the other Lambs, the Goat saw fit to yield.
“Not exactly, as yet,” he admitted. “But to-night—I hope——”
“After which we are invited to call—oh, you brute!” groaned the Albany Lamb, and started for him. But the Goat had pulled himself loose, and gained the door. He stopped, however, to pull an oblong package from his coat pocket.
“Here,” he said, tossing it toward the crowd. “The smokes are on me tonight. Sorry I can’t be here to assist, for they’re a distinct advance on your husky old Chancellors. Also, there’s a case of fairly good booze downstairs that the janitor is taking care of until you call for it. So long, fellows!” And with a wave of his hat the Goat departed.