Maybe it's that pinky-white
complexion of hers, or the simple way she dresses. Anyway, she looks
good enough to eat. Don't do to tell 'em so, though.
"Good morning, Torchy," says she, chirky and sweet.
"Wrong on two counts, young lady," says I, ticklin' her ear playful as
I passes.
"Really?" says she, delayin' her attack on a grapefruit. "Just how?"
"It's afternoon, for one item," says I. "And say, why not ditch that
juvenile hail? Torchy, Torchy! Seems to me I ought to be mistered
to-day. Someone ought to do it, anyway."
"Why to-day any more than yesterday?" asks Vee.
I waits until the dinin'-room steward has faded, and then I remarks
haughty: "Maybe it ain't come to you that I'm a near-plute now."
"Pooh!" says Vee. "You're not a bit richer than I am."
"Boy, page the auditin' committee!" says I. "How strong do you tally
up?"
"I'm sure I don't know," says she. "Neither do you, Mister Torchy."
"Oh, yes, I do," says I. "I've got just the same as you."
Vee runs out the tip of her tongue at me.
"That's the sort of disposition," says she, "which goes with red hair."
"Towhead yourself!" says I. "What kind of a scramble has the cook got
on the eggs to-day?"
"You'd better order soft-boiled," says Vee.
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