Chetty don't like havin' his bumps felt of that way, and comes back with a left swing followed by an upper cut. They was both a little wild, and they didn't connect. That wa'n't the worst of it, though. Before he's through with that foolishness Sylvie turns them long arms of his into a rapid fire battery, and his mitts begin to touch up them spots he's picked out at the rate of about a hundred bull's eyes to the minute. It was bing--bing--bing--biff!--with Chetty's arms swingin' wide, and his block rockin', and his breath comin' short, and his knees gettin' as wabbly as a new boy speakin' a piece. Before I can call the round Curlylocks has put the steam into a jaw punch that sends Chester to the mat as hard as though he'd been dropped out of a window. "Is--is it all over?" says Chetty when he comes to, a couple of minutes later. "If you leave it to me," says I, "I should say it was; unless Mr. What's-his-name here wants to try that same bunch of tricks on me. How about it?" "Much obliged, professor," says Curlylocks, givin' a last hitch to his white tie; "but I've seen you in the ring." "Well," says I, "I've heard you recite po'try; so we're even. But say, you make a whole lot better showin' in my line than I would in yours, and if you ever need a backer in either, just call on me." We shakes hands on that; and then Chetty comes to the front, man fashion, with his flipper out, too. That starts the reunion, and when I leaves 'em, about one A. M., the Scotch and ginger ale tide was runnin' out fast. How about Angelica? Ah, say, next mornin' there shows up a younger, fresher, gushier one than she is, and inside of half an hour her and Curlylocks is close together on a bench, and he's got the little book out again. Angelica pines in the background for about three minutes before Chester comes around with the tourin' car, and the last I see of 'em they was snuggled up together in the back of the tonneau. So I guess Chetty don't need much sympathisin' with, even if he was passed a couple of lime drops. XIII GIVING BOMBAZOULA THE HOOK Maybe I was tellin' you something about them two rockin' chair commodores from the yacht club, that I've got on my reg'lar list? They're some of Pinckney's crowd, you know, and that's just as good as sayin' they're more ornamental than useful. Anyway, that description's a close fit for Purdy. First off I couldn't stand for Purdy at all. He's one of these natty, band box chappies, with straw coloured hair slicked down as smooth as if he'd just come up from a dive, and a costume that looks as if it might have been copied from a stained glass window. You've seen them symphonies in greys and browns, with everything matched up, from their shirt studs to their shoes buttons? Now, I don't mind a man's bein' a swell dresser--I've got a few hot vests myself--but this tryin' to be a Mr. Pastelle is runnin' the thing into the ground.