Cutie was a shapely Mamma of twenty-one summers. Her bobbed hair looked like a bunch of yellow grapes. She offered an eyeful which would make a brass monkey run a temperature of 209 degrees. When Cutie hit the boulevard on a breezy afternoon she left a row of asterisks in her wake. After one look at our little Enemy of Sorrows, men were never the same. Forever after they kissed their wives and sweethearts with faraway eyes. No gent under 104 years of age was fit to pass the Board of Censorship for eight weeks after Cutie smiled on him. Cutie gave St. Peter writer’s cramps before she was eighteen. After she was eighteen St. Peter crossed her name out of the Judgement Book. Not taking any chances, he also threw away her telephone number. Nevertheless our little butterfly of passion was as evil to look at as a spring morning. Where Cutie was born and how nobody knew. All that anybody knew about our little Blue Ribbon roadster was that she had the moth complex. Every night Cutie burned her wings off and every morning she grew them on again. To be very brief, Cutie was the kind of a girl men forget, forty-nine years after their widows have collected the Insurance. CHAPTER II _Introducing Little Casino and the Plugged Nickel_ CHAPTER II On her twenty-first birthday, this warm mamma met an over ripe quince who had been named Herman Pupick by his unfortunate parents. A word about Herman. Our hero was one of triplets. His father, Rudolph Pupick, a traveling salesman, rushed home from Milwaukee when he got the tidings. After looking over the year’s crop, Mr. Pupick, Sr., said: “We’ll keep this one and drown the other two.” The one he kept was Herman. This was a mean break. Our hero showed his disposition at an early age. He was a wet smack from the take off. When he was five months old he refused to nurse at his mother’s breast. He considered it immoral and obscene. Before little Herman was nine years old, everybody knew he was the lily’s whiskers. He grew up to be one of those fireproof crepe hangers, who take orders only from God, and he married an autumn leaf named Emmaline, suffering from virginity. When he was thirty-five years old the only flesh pots Herman had ever seen were those his wife tended on the kitchen stove. He had been married ten years and every night before sliding into the hay he and the dementia praecox case who shared his headaches would kneel beside their thorny couch and request God to keep them pure. And He did. Herman himself was so pure that he cancelled his subscription to the Presbyterian Weekly during the War owing to a headline which appeared in that racy organ on March 3, 1917. The headline read, “Naval Maneuvers Described by Eye Witness.” Our right hand of God considered this headline too suggestive for an organ intended for the home. This pious dingelberry had only one eye. The other one was made of glass. It cost seven dollars and a half and was painted green.