"If you will associate with 'em, it's bound to happen," said Finnegan in his rapid fire style. "I know the symptoms. My brother Pat went maudlin, when he was just Skippy's age. Ten years of it, presents Christmas and birthdays, flowers twice a month, postage stamps and letter paper, weekly bulletins and all that sort of rot! Ten years, and then he married a girl, best friend stuff, trust you together and all that--married her a month after he met her. Think of the expense. Not for me, old top--my money goes for race horses." "You've nothing to worry over, you wild Irishman," said Snorky, who felt a certain presumption in this lesson. "Casting aspersions? Oh, I don't know! I may not be beautiful, but women, proud women, have sighed as I passed." "Run away," said Snorky impatiently. "I was just going," said Dennis with dignity. At the door he paused for a parting shot. "Hard luck, old gormandizer. There won't be so many midnight spreads for you, now. Cut down the jiggers, shut up the pantry, tighten the belt! Skippy'll need his money for _other_ things. Thank the Lord the only thing he can get into of mine, is a necktie. Hard luck!" Perhaps a little of the practical reactions had occurred to Snorky, for he flung a shoe at the diminutive Finnegan and was still in a brown study when Skippy came in. "If he starts to wash he's in love. Bet that's why he's been so friendly," he thought, waiting developments. "I thought it was queer he didn't sulk more after the big smell!" In fact Snorky had been considerably puzzled at his roommate's actions after the fiasco of the Mosquito-Proof Socks. "Any mail?" said Skippy nervously. "I don't think so." "Are you sure?" "Come to think about it, there might be a letter over on the table." The Byronic melancholy vanished from Skippy's face. He sprang to the table and seized the envelope. "Feeling better?" said Snorky, noting the beneficial results. "Much." "You look ten years younger." "You go to blazes!" said Skippy, but without anger. He went to the bed and flinging back the mattress uncovered three pairs of trousers slowly hardening into that razor edge which is the _sine qua non_ of a man of fashion. Apparently satisfied, he next proceeded to the mirror, where, after a short inspection, he seized his brushes, dipped them into the water pitcher and laboriously began to reconstruct the perfect part that was beginning to replace the Skippy cowlick. Trousers may be brought to order in a few minutes, but to subdue a cowlick is a matter of years. Ten minutes' rigorous application of the brushes failing to produce results, he ducked into the washbasin, drove a line with the comb, slicked down the sides and applied a press, in the form of a derby, which process will subdue the most recalcitrant of cowlicks for at least two hours. "Aha! Object matrimony?" said a squeaky voice.