"Seven-thirty," says Vee. "But I don't know what to think, Torchy--the
traveling-bag and--"

"Don't bother a bit, Vee," says I. "Leave it to me. If it's Clyde at
the bottom of this, I've as good as got him spiked to the track. Let
Auntie pack her trunk if she wants to, and don't say a word. Give the
giddy old thing a chance. It'll be all the merrier afterwards."

"But--but I don't understand."

"Me either," says I. "I'm a grand little guesser, though. And I'll be
outside, in ambush for Clyde, from seven o'clock on."

"Will you?" says Vee,' sighin' relieved. "But do be careful, Torchy.
Don't--don't be reckless."

"Pooh!" says I. "That's my middle name. If I get slapped on the wrist
and perish from it, you'll know it was all for you."

Course, it would have been more heroic if Clyde hadn't been such a
ladylike gent. As it is, he's about as terrifyin' as a white poodle.
So I'm still breathin' calm and reg'lar when I sees him rollin' up in a
cab about seven-twenty-five. I'm at the curb before he can open the
taxi door.

"Sorry," says I, "but I'm afraid it's all off."

"Eh?" says he, gawpin' at me.

"And you with your suit-case all packed too," says I. "How provokin'!