The party entered the house, which was evidently being hastily cleaned for the return of the owners. A subdued noise as of servants in commotion could be heard in the rear. On a hall stand stood a collection of mail in three piles. The flit chancing to glance at it, stood petrified. Selecting a post-card he advanced upon the rear of the unheeding gob, turned up the bottom of the wide and floppy left trouser-leg, read from the sewn-in slip the name inscribed thereon, compared it with the address on the post-card, turned down the trouser-leg to one fold and with a sudden, sardonic inspiration not only left it so, but adjusted the other one to match it. “Mr. Schuyler Tappan Veeder,” he observed with concentrated bitterness, straightening up. “Here,” responded the gob, cheerfully. “What about it?” “This is _your_ joint,” declared the flit in solemn accusation. “Not while my fond parents enjoy their present health,” was the genial reply. But the soul of Corporal Slayter was hot with suspicion. “What kinda con game you been workin’ on me?” he said, surlily. “Call yourself Chaw Veeder.” “Barring the presence of ladies, you’re a liar,” retorted the gob promptly. “It’s my pals call me Chaw. Which reminds me.” Producing a rich-hued bar from his pocket, he bit off a generous chunk and expertly stowed it. The angry eyes of his pal flickered a little. But he was unconvinced. “You’re phony,” he growled. “A masqueradin’ dude.” He pointed to the trousers which he had left “cuffed.” “That’s your style,” he asserted. “Me, I’m through. I’ll not be made a guy of. C’mon, Nora.” * * * * * The gob stretched forth an iron-muscled hand which he inserted forcibly and affectionately between the flit’s neck and his collar. “Pause a moment, Claude,” he besought. “Girls, will you kindly muffle your ears? Thanks. Now, Freddie, you lop-sided, cross-grained, bone-headed, swivel-eared, pizen-souled descendant of ten generations of mule-thieves, before I break your jaw in three places at once, listen while I tell you what you are.” And he told him. But of the telling there is no record, because after the preface, Mr. Watts retired for air and the sike ran out to seek a pencil and paper and returned too late for the exordium. The flit, spell-bound, relaxed his expression of disfavor. When it was over he bent down and readjusted the gob’s trouser-legs to the regulation straightness. Apology could go no further. “You win, Chaw,” said he shamefacedly. “Speed up the wedding feast.”