suspects that it ain't any case of squirrels in the attic; but just a
sample of sweet Southern gush.

Next I gets a peek through the draperies at some straw-colored hair
with a shell-pink ear peepin' from underneath, and I know that whatever
else is wrong don't matter; for over there on the windowseat,
surrounded by half a dozen young gents, is somebody very particular and
special. Followin' this I does a hasty piece of scout work and draws a
deep breath. No Aunty looms on the horizon--not yet, anyway.

With the arrival of the new delegates the admirin' semicircle has to
break up, and the three of us are towed to the bay window by Vivacious
Vivian.

"Princess," says she, makin' a low duck, "three other Knights who would
do homage. Allow me first to present Mr. Reginald St. Claire Smith.
Here Reggy. Also Mr. Theodore Braden. And next Mr.--Mr.--er----"

She's got to me. I expect her first guess was that I'd been dragged in
by one of the other two; but as neither of 'em makes any sign she turns
them black, dark-ringed lamps inquirin' on me and asks, "Oh, I'm sure I
beg pardon, but--but you are----"

Now who the blazes was I, anyway? It all depended on how well posted
she was, whether I should admit I was Torchy the Banished, or invent an
alias on the spot.

"Why," says I, draggin' it out to gain time, "you see I'm a--that is,
I'm a--a----"