Thus, and not in treacled cadences, intrigued Mariar and Sir Thomas in the
back alley.

"Do you like it here?" asked the doctor.

"Yop. But sometimes I feel wasted--"

"You don't look wasted--" "No--" after a hasty glance in the wall mirror.

"Don't you get sick of the sight of food?"

"Here, oh, no! I don't know any lovelier sight than our kitchens--yes, yes,
sir, I'll get your pied frotatoes at oneth."

When Warble was a bit frustrated or embarrassed, she often inverted her
initials and lisped. It was one of her ways.

The other clients at her table had no intention of being neglected while
their Pickfordian waitress smiled engagingly on a newcomer.

It was the iceman who had hollered. He seemed to be merely a red-faced
inanimate object, that worked by strange and compound levers.

Next him was a hat-check girl, a queenly person who communed with something
set in the lid of her vanity case, and fed on chicken a la king.

Then there was a newsboy, whose all-observant eyes darted about everywhere,
the while he absorbed baked beans and ketchup.

An old maid shopper. She merely brooded over her worn and pencil-scored