insult poor Sally, and she had admitted that she was a hit dizzy and
qualmish and she had--well, she--she--

Mr. Budlong finished for her fiercely:

"I know! You ate a lot of her wine jelly, and you told her she was a
love and you kissed her good-by, and would she excuse you from coming
to the door because you were still a little wobbly."

Mrs. Budlong looked at him in surprise: "She told you!"

"Nah! I haven't seen her."

"Then how on earth did you ever guess?" she babbled.

"It was my womanly intuition!" he snarled, and that evening he went
down town and sat in the hotel lobby for a couple of hours. He
usually did this anyway--in summer he sat on the sidewalk--but this
evening, he did it with a certain implication of escape. He
expressed renunciation in the mere shutting of the door.

On the way home Mr. Budlong was busy with schemes. His mind turned
again to his son.

In a smallish town, a growing boy is an unfailing source of _casus
belli_.

As an inciter of feuds there was something almost Balkan or Moroccan
about Ulysses Budlong Junior. Nearly every day he had come charging
into the house with bad news in some form or other. Some rock or