don't!" He spoke imploringly. "I am very touchy about my laugh--it's
the only one I've got, you know. It's quite childish, isn't it? Never
grew up, you know." He made the funny little sound again. It was like
the bleating of a toy lamb when its head is twisted. "You know, they
ask me how I do it. I don't know; I try to teach other people--they
never seem to get it right. Do you like it?"

Miss Dorn laughed again and looked gratefully at him.

"Oh, I'm so glad I met you!" she said quite frankly--and then,
mischievously: "I'll ask my uncle to forgive you, if you like."

"Your uncle!"

"Yes, the old gentleman with the--er--spinach."

If Mr. Masterson was simulating embarrassment, he did it very
cleverly: he started to say something once or twice, changed his mind
confusedly, and suddenly, putting the shuffleboard stick under his
arm, began to imitate a guitar.

Miss Dorn applauded. "Splendid! You should play in the orchestra."

"Thank you." He smiled gratefully. "Listen; this is a bassoon. I have
to make a funny face when I do it."

Miss Dorn clapped her hands. "Great!" she cried. "Oh, simply great!"

"A flute," introduced Mr. Masterson.