makes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappy
speeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin'
each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the
sort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.

T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. He
exhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mounted
cops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to
read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. Cousin
Inez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands,
the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef
luggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it.

"_Voilà_!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillabaisse!"

Marie gets busy passin' around bowls and spoons, and the programme
seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin'
out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushes
in with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiest
fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in
it. M-m-m-m!

"He may be a punk poet," says I to Whity; "but he's a good provider."

"Huh!" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit
Virgie's makin'.

Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been
crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.