CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Say" remarked Sabrina, as we reached her table the other evening. "Did
you hear the gladsome tidings? Some purple-whiskered bark is going to
caper in this country from dear old Lunnon and deal out religion to the
Fluffs of the merry merry. Can you surpass it?
"He is going to slip it to us in our tea. Like knockout drops, I guess.
Gee, can you see him distributing tracts to that mob. It's a cinch that
they will make good curl papers, anyway.
"The only way to convert most of these dames is to wait until the
morning after a birthday party and work the remorse gag before they have
a chance to get a bracer for their hangover.
"Can you see him taking a bunch of them out on a picnic like he did in
England. Claremont or Far Rockaway for theirs, and if he didn't come
across with the big feed with the necessary liquid trimmings it would be
the tar and feathers for his. I have had several wine agents try to
convert me, but I always stick to the same brand. Let him come over and
we will show him a time that will make old Pap Dowie's reception look
like a twinkle.
"At that, us chorus dames ain't so worse. Of course there are a bunch of
shines in the aggregation, but I guess if you kept tab you would find
out that about nine-tenths of them slide for home as soon as they get
the cosmetic off their eyelashes. It's the other tenth that try to be
the human night keys that crab the act for the whole works.
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