all the debate is about.

"Look what wants to see Mr. Robert!" says I.

"Impossible!" says Piddie, takin' one look. "Send him away at once!"

"Hear that?" says I to Curlylocks. "Not a chance! Fade, Spaghetti,
fade!"

The full force of that decision seems to penetrate his nut; for he
gulps hard once or twice, the muscles on his thick throat swells up
rigid, and next a big round tear leaks out of his off eye and trickles
down over his cheek. Maybe it don't look some absurd too, seein' signs
of such deep emotion on a face like that.

"Now, none of that, my man!" puts in Piddie, who's as chicken hearted
as he is peevish. "Torchy, you--you attend to him."

"What'll I do," says I, "call in a plumber to stop the leak?"

"Find out who he is and what he wants," says he, "and then pack him
off. I am very busy."

"Well," says I, turnin' to the thick guy, "what's the name?"

"Me?" says he. "I--I am Zandra Popokoulis."

"Help!" says I. "Popo--here, write it on the pad." But even when he's
done that I can't do more than make a wild stab at sayin' it. "Oh yes,
thanks," I goes on. "Popover for short, eh? Think Mr. Robert would