Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust. Efficiency scored and in an incredibly short space of time eight dozen custard pies were cooling their heels in the pantry windows. “Not to be served with the supper,” Warble warned the butler, “when I want them brought in I'll tell you.” Beer dressed Warble for the party, Petticoat standing by and advising. The gown was a few wisps of henna-colored chiffon which fitfully blew, half concealed, half disclosed a scant slip of jade green satin. Flesh-colored stockings, Petticoat decreed, and henna slippers with carved jade buckles. “Now, her hair--” he mused, leaning on his folded arms over the back of a chair. He walked slowly round Warble. “Oh, wopse it up anyway,” he said, “and tangle some jade beads in it. She'll stand that.” His orders were carried out and Beer clasped her hands in silent ecstasy at the result of the combined efforts of herself and her master. “Some day, Warble,” Bill said, “I'll teach you how to dress becomingly.” “And I'll teach you how to undress becomingly,” said Beer, not wanting to be outclassed in her own game. Warble waved Petticoat out of the room, dismissed Beer with a simple “Get out!” and then quickly flung off the clothes she wore and hopped into a little frock of white organdie and cherries. She wadded some hair over each ear, piled up the rest in a moppy coil and crowned it with a wreath of cherries. The party came. “Good Heavens!” Warble thought, as she looked at the smart, bored crowd, “have I got to bring these hifalutin creatures down to earth? I don't know that I can make them laugh, but I'll give them a jolt!” She did. Her cherries bobbing, two long-stemmed ones held between her teeth, she flew around like a hen with its head off. “You see,” she explained, “it's a Mack Sennett party, everybody puts things down everybody's back. Like this--and here are the things.” From a tray brought by a footman, Warble selected a fuzzy caterpillar and turning quickly dropped it down inside the soft collar of Trymie Icanspoon, a poet, who _would_ dress as he pleased. He went into amusing spasms and everybody took something from the tray. There were cold raw oysters, bits of ice, thistles, cooked spaghetti and plain granulated sugar. They had to put them down the backs of the men only, because the fashionably dressed ladies hadn't any backs to put them down. You can't put an oyster down two crossed strings of pearls. It caused great hilarity to see the Reverend Goodman standing on his head, trying to lose a red-hot silver dollar; and Daisy Snow, whose débutante frock was available for the purpose, wriggled beneath the tickling crawling of a large but harmless spider.