But Joy evinced great interest. "Tell me--" "Babe--the kid could be the next heavyweight champ in a breeze. I mind me one night a monkey comes into the tavern rodded--" Joy held up a hand. "Just a moment. I don't like to appear stupid, but--" "A moke wid a heater--a goon wid a gat." "Oh--you mean a man with a gun." "Sure--that's what I said. Anyhow, this droolie makes a crack about Tessie's beak--" "An insult relative to her nose?" "Sure--sure. And Tessie's hot to kiss him wid a bottle when he pulls the iron." "Imagine that," Joy said, and I felt a slight shiver go through her body. "Then Homer here, gets off his stool and says very polite-like, 'That remark, sir, was in bad taste and entirely uncalled-for. I believe an apology is in order.' And the monkey standing there with the gat in his mitt. What Homer meant was the jerk'd cracked out o' turn and to eat his words fast." "I gathered that was what he meant." "But the screwball raises the hardware and--wham--Homer hits him. What a sock! The goon back-pedals across the room and into a cardboard wall next to the door marked 'ladies'. He busts right through the wall and lands in a frail's lap inside who's--" "Powdering her nose?" "That's right! What a sock!" * * * * * Joy's eyes were upon mine. "Darling! I didn't have the least idea. Why, it's going to be wonderful! Never a dull moment!" I kissed my bride, after which she said, "I think I could do with a drink, sweetheart." "Your wish is my command." I got up and started toward the liquor supply inside the house. Joy's soft call stopped me. "What is it, angel?" I inquired. "Not just a drink, sweet. Bring the bottle." I went into the kitchen and got a bottle of brandy. But upon returning, I discovered I'd neglected to bring glasses. But Joy took the bottle from me in a rather dazed manner, knocked off the neck against a leg of the bench and tipped the bottle to her beautiful lips. She took a pull of brandy large enough to ward off the worst case of pneumonia and then passed the bottle to Bag Ears. "Drink hearty, pal," she murmured, and sort of sank down into herself. I never got my turn at the bottle because, just at that moment, Aunt Gretchen came sailing like a pink cloud along the conservatory walk. She was no longer the old familiar Aunt Gretchen. Her eyes were glazed and her face was drawn and weary. Bag Ears looked up politely and asked, "Who's the fat sack?" I was hoping Aunt Gretchen hadn't heard the question because she would fail to understand that while his words were uncouth, he had a heart of gold and meant well. And I don't think she _did_ hear him. She didn't even hear Joy, who replied, "That's the dame that owns the joint."