hail.

"What!" says he. "A friend from Sand Spur? By Jove! It--it can't be
Valentina, can it?"

"She's the one," says I. "Goin' back early in the mornin' too, so I
didn't know but you might like to step out and--"

"Step out nothing!" says he. "Bring her in. There's only Gladys, and
we're just starting dinner. I want you both to join us."

"Wha-a-at?" I gasps. "Lug Valentina--in there!"

"Most certainly," says he.

"But see here, you big boob," says I, "have you got any idea how she's
costumed?"

He laughs. "Let's see," he goes on, "it ought to be a dark blue print
with red polka dots. That used to be her Sunday dress."

"You win," says I. "The styles in Sand Spur ain't changed any. But
this is Fifth Avenue, remember."

"Torchy," says he, droppin' one of his big paws on my shoulder, "what I
shall always remember about Valentina Tozier is this: that when she
picked me up out on the Gulf I was in a bad way. I'd been rolling
around in a rummy old motor-boat for hours and hours, with a stalled
engine, and a norther howling down the coast. Came sailing out in a
crazy catboat, Valentina did, and towed me in. She knew nothing about