“That’s the guy,” cried the flit, “that called us ‘Bol-she-_vee_-ki!’ Lemme attim.” “Then you admit that you are them,” said the magistrate. “Or, if not them, they.” “We do,” said the gob; “with mitigating circumstances.” “There is a warrant out against you.” A blond and frescoed portent projected itself upward from a side bench. “Make it two, Judge. And make the second one for murder.” “Saints preserve us!” groaned the sike. “The sorrowing protectress of the silhouetted pup!” “It is a small world,” repeated the magistrate. “This gentleman (indicating the stricken Mr. Foxley) who originally came here for the purpose of taking the pledge, now prefers the charge that you instigated to attack him without provocation a prehistoric monster of the dragon or fire-spouting persuasion which, after destroying his automobile, chased him through a plate-glass window and totally wrecked his nerves. Comparing his description of the monster with my own impression of your vehicle, and remembering that the female of the species is more deadly than the male, I conclude that it is her. Or, if not her, it. What have you to say?” “Just this,” answered Mr. Watts with annoyance, “I came here to be married, not prosecuted. Come now, Hartley, as friend to friend, can’t you fix this? It may be my last chance.” “Your friend with the talent for blackmail seems to be a person of infinite resource,” said the magistrate, glancing toward the sike. “Has he any suggestions?” “If I may be permitted,” said the sike, modestly rising, “I suggest, first, that Mr. Foxley is too good a sport to spoil a wedding, if assured that the groom will never again travel Fifth Avenue in a tank. (Mr. Foxley grunted.) As for the noble cause of Suppression of Tobacco _et cetera_, I propose a generous epithalamic contribution thereto by the happy bridegroom. We now come to the ill-fated canine, and its sorrowing owner. Though myself in a state of genteel poverty, I will gladly start a subscription to bury it, or if that prove impracticable, to have it pasted in a scrap-book, with appropriate honors.” “Nothin’ doin’!” asserted the bereaved blonde in angry tones. “I wanta tell you--” “One moment, please. Would it not soothe your injured feelings to be invited to the wedding and to sign as legal witness? There is a reporter present, and I assume that the nuptials of Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts with Miss Carey Vail will receive a meed of desirable publicity extending to all who participate.” “Not _the_ Miss Carey Vail!” exclaimed the awe-struck blonde, who went into Society eagerly, though vicariously, through the medium of the daily press. “The same,” declared Mr. Watts. “Positively last appearance in that rôle. That is,” he added anxiously, “if you accept our earnest invitation to come to the wedding.” “Chawmed, I’m suah,” murmured the lady, and proceeded to powder her nose from an apparatus concealed in a dangling bag.