She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with them
all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like Coney
Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls.

She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large, embracing
arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew they were taking
her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting overcame her.

"Oh, pleathe--pleathe," she lisped.

In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled
white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink calf,
Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing,

As soft as young,
As gay as soft,

and, to a man, the male population of Butterfly Center fell for her.

Not so the remainder of the citizens.

One of the men was yelling at Petticoat:

"Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours--I'll tote the bride-person you've
got there--with joy and gladness." Warble looked at the yeller.

"Can't quite place me, chick, can you?" he grinned at her. "Well I'm only
old Goldwin Leathersham--no use for me in the world but to spend money.
Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old thing--step up here, Marigold,