"Just that," says I. "When you get to givin' mornin' readin's at the Plaza for the benefit of the Red Cross, you can dig 'em out again; but for the Purple Pup you got to be costumed different. Who ever heard of a goulash poet in a braid-bound cutaway and spats? Say, it's a wonder they let you live south of the Arch." "But--but what ought I to wear?" asks Rupert. "Foolish question!" says I. "Who are you, anyway? Answer: the Sailor Poet. There you are! Sea captain's togs for you--double-breasted blue coat, baggy-kneed blue trousers, and a yachtin' cap." "Very well," says Rupert. "But about my being asked to read. Just how----" "Leave it to me, Rupert," says I. "Leave everything to me." Which was a lot simpler than tellin' him I didn't know. You should have seen Vee's face when I tells her about Rupert's new line. "Captain Killam a poet!" says she. "Oh, really now, Torchy!" "Uh-huh!" says I. "He's done enough for a book. Read me some of it, too." "But--but what is it like?" asks Vee. "How does it sound?" "Why," says I, "it sounds batty to me--like a record made by a sailor who was simple in the head and talked a lot in his sleep. Course, I'm no judge. What's the difference, though? Rupert wants to spout it in public." "But the people in the restaurant," protests Vee. "Suppose they should laugh, or do something worse?" "That's where Rupert is takin' a chance," says I. "Personally, I think he'll be lucky if they don't throw plates at him. But we ain't underwritin' any accident policy; we're just bookin' him for a part he claims he can play. Are you on?" Vee gets that eye twinkle of hers workin'. "I think it will be perfectly lovely." I got to admit, too, that she's quite a help. "We must be sure Mrs. Mumford and that Bartley person are both there," says she. "And we ought to have as many of Captain Killam's friends as possible. I'll tell you. Let's give a dinner-party." "Must we?" says I. "You know we ain't introducin' any London success. This is Rupert's first stab, remember." We set the date for the day the book was to be out, which gives Rupert an excuse for celebratin'. He'd invited Mrs. Mumford and Vinton to be his guests, and they'd promised to be on hand. As for us, we'd rounded up Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins and J. Dudley Simms. Well, everybody showed up. And as it happens, it's one of the big nights at the Purple Pup. The long center table is surrounded by a gay bunch of assorted artists who are bein' financed by an out-of-town buyer who seems to be openin' Chianti reckless. We were over in one corner, as far away from the ukulele torturers as we could get, while at the other end of the room is Rupert with his two. I thought he looked kind of pallid, but it might have been only on account of the cigarette smoke. "Is it time yet, Torchy?" asks Mr. Robert, when we gets through to the striped ice cream and chicory essence. "Let's hold off," says I, "and see if someone else don't pull a curtain-raiser."