"Good ol' Aggie," Marc giggled, dropping his appropriated bottle shatteringly at the woman's feet. "Long may she rave." "Well, I'll be!" Agatha murmured. "They're drunk as skunks, the lot of them." "Eh?" Chadwick inquired, moving to her side. "Who's drunk?" "The tykes," Agatha said, "and the old man. They're lubricated, you might say, like a lawn mower in May." Chadwick peered inside, gazed unbelievingly at the swaying trio. He wagged a finger. "Shame," he said. He reached inside and lifted Toffee out. Made forgetful of her transformation by her recent libations, Toffee twined her arms around Chadwick's neck. "Hello, handsome," she cooed throatily. "Put her down," Agatha snapped. "There's something not quite right about that child. I don't like the funny way she's looking at you. I won't stand for it." Apparently Chadwick, too, had noticed something a bit unusual about the infant in his arms, but was not entirely displeased. He smiled confusedly. "She's only a youngster," he said. "I don't care," Agatha retorted. "Youngster or not, no female is going to look at you like that and get away with it. Why, even at twenty I hadn't a gleam in my eye like that." "Oh, I wouldn't say that, my dear," Chadwick said. "I remember a night when you were only eighteen...." "Enough!" Agatha commanded with agitation. "There's something improper about that child and you're to put her down this instant. I shudder to think what she'll be like when she grows up. If she ever does, that is." At this juncture Mr. Culpepper hopped out of the truck, teetered precariously on one foot for a moment, and sprawled out on the ground. Propping his head up on one elbow, he gazed up at Agatha, a new boldness in his eye. He winked debonairly. "Hi, yuh, toots," he gurgled. Agatha appeared to have bitten into a sour apple. "Ugh!" she said. "How depraved!" Except for occasional dim lights on the stair landings the office building was completely dark. The labored progress of the strange party wending its way to the fourth floor was accompanied by a fruity assortment of stumblings, curses and giggles. When they finally arrived at the offices of the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc handed his keys to Mr. Culpepper under the false impression that the little man could better negotiate the keyhole. To the befogged scientist, however, the lock was a writhing, squirming thing that constantly and with utter perverseness, avoided his grasp. The struggle became a very personal thing with the little man. He threw himself against the door with all his might. "Won't hold still, eh?" he challenged. "Well, we'll see about that!" With a snort of disgust, Agatha took the keys from the little man, shoved him aside, and opened the door. With a curt nod she directed the others inside. * * * * *