"'S what she said before," grunted Breede. "Tha's nothing new." "And she says we're snoop-cats and we might as well go back home--now," continued the Demon. "Says she's got the--u-u-m-mm!--says to perfectly quit tagging." "Nothing can matter now," said the bereaved mother. "He's talking himself," said the Demon. "Mercy he's got a new voice ... sounds like another man. He says if we don't beat it out of here by the next boat--he can imagine nothing of less--something or other I can't hear--" "--consequence," snapped Breede. "Yes, that's it; and now he's laughing and telling her she's a perfectly flapper." "Oh, my poor child," murmured the mother. "Puzzle t' me," said Breede. "I swear I can't make out just how many kinds of a--" "James!" said his wife sternly, and indicated the presence of several interested foreigners.