“Mount of Atalanta highly prominent,” said Goodsport, “that means you are a runner, either for office or for pleasure. Here is a line meeting--that indicates a railroad man. H'm. A well-developed football shows you have been to college. You seem to be inclined to solemates--” But Leathersham had taken to his heels. “Please,” said Iva Payne, gracefully offering her long psychic foot for perusal. “Ah, the poetic foot!” the soloist exclaimed. “There are two kinds of poetic feet--the Iambic and the Trochaic. You have one of each. In poetic feet the heels are often found in French forms. But poets are a footloose class and are often found with lame and halting feet. You don't seem to be a poet.” “Never said I was,” retorted Iva, shortly, and Warble said, “Stop this nonsense, it makes too much kicking. Now we're going to play the game I learned in Buda Pesth.” She led them to the picture gallery which had been prepared for the game by having many sheets of fly-paper placed on the floor, sticky side up. “It's Fly-paper Tag,” she said. It _was_ Fly-paper Tag--she was quite right. “You're it!” screamed Mrs. Givens as she pushed the minister over onto a sheet of fly-paper. “It yourself,” shrieked Leathersham adroitly shoving a sheet where he saw Mrs. Givens would light next. * * * * * Warble was certain she was a great reformer. Yet would these reformed people stay reformed? True, they were now in the spirit of her party, Mack Sennett himself couldn't have asked a better interpretation of his own vital principles. But had they come to realize that this after all was the real thing, the true ideal? Warble feared. * * * * * They were a stuck-up lot. The fly-paper had intrigued them all. Not only were they all half-soled with it but the merry wags had decorated the ladies' bare backs and the men's coated backs, until all looked like sandwich men or peripatetic ragpickers. Trymie Icanspoon crowned Mrs. Charity Givens with a fresh sheet of tanglefoot and Warble hilariously made a foolscap of another for the Rector's bald head. Judge Drinkwater folded Daisy Snow's two little hands together, then wrapped them tightly in fly-paper, and shook with laughter to see her futile attempts to get free. “Naughty man!” she cried, “to make poor little me so helpless!” With a spring she flung her entangled hands over the Judge's head, and hung round his neck like a pretty little millstone. Warble relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired and very hungry. But she was the stuff of which true reformers are made and Martin Luther had nothing on her. Then Beer came tripping in with a pile of varicolored garments which she held up to view. “These,” Warble announced, “are the real Mack Sennett costumes. They are one-piece bathing suits, I got them from an importer of contraband goods. You are to put them on in place of your clothes. And please forget that you are Butterflies and turn into bathing beauties and champion swimmers.”