Part 62 (1/2)

”Soak it in water,” said the Gutter Pup.

”Soak it in witch-hazel,” said Dennis. ”It will make it more fragrant.”

d.i.n.k hesitated:

”Won't it smell too much?”

”Naw. It evaporates.”

Stover seized the bottle and inundated his head, made an exact part in the middle and drew the sides back in the fas.h.i.+on of pigeon wings.

”Now clap on a dicer,” said the Gutter Pup approvingly, ”and she'll come up and feed from your hand.”

”Are you really in love?” said Dennis softly.

Stover, ignoring all comments, tied a white satin four-in-hand with forget-me-not embossings, which had struck his fancy in Fatty Harris'

room, and inserted a stick-pin of Finnegan's.

”You ought to have a colored handkerchief to stick in your breast pocket,” said the Gutter Pup, who began to yield to the excitement.

”Up his sleeve is more English, don't you know,” said Dennis.

Stover stood brazenly before the mirror, looking himself over. The scrubbing he had inflicted on his face had left red, s.h.i.+ning spots in prominent places, while his hair, slicked back and plastered down, gave him somewhat the look of an Italian barber on a Sunday off. He felt the general glistening effect without, in his innocence, knowing the remedy.

”d.i.n.k, you are bee-oo-tiful!” said Dennis.

”Be careful how you sit down,” said the Tennessee Shad, thinking of the trousers.

”How are the shoes?” asked the Gutter Pup solicitously.

”Tight as mischief,” said d.i.n.k, with a wry face.

”Walk on your heels.”

Stover, with a last deprecating glance, opened the door and departed, amid cheers from the contributing committee.

When he arrived at the Lodge the dusky waitress who opened the door started back, as he dropped his hat, and sniffed the air. He went into the parlor, spoiling his carefully-planned entrance by tripping over the rug.

”Heavens!” said Tough, ”what a smell of witch-hazel. Why, it's d.i.n.k.

What have you been doing?”

Stover felt the temperature rise to boiling.

”We had a bit of a s.h.i.+ndy,” he said desperately, trying to give it a tragic accent, ”and I b.u.mped my head.”

”Well, you look like a skinned rat,” said Tough to put him thoroughly at his ease.

The angel, however, came to his rescue with solicitous inquiries and with such a heavenly look that Stover only regretted that he could not appear completely done up in bandages.

They went in to dinner, where d.i.n.k was so overwhelmed by the vision of Miss McCarty in all her transcendent charms that the effort of swallowing became a painful physical operation.