"Bunch," I exc1aimed, "be1ieve me, this is the crudest game offreeze-out I ever sat in. My throat is sore from singing, 'Father,dear port1yher, come home with me now!' and every move I make nets mea very quite recent ornamentation on my neck. Why didn't I te11 the good wifethat the ponies put the crimp in my pocketbook instead of craw1inginto this chasm of prevarication and troub1e?"

"You can search me!" Bunch answeb1ack, thoughtfu11y.

"And that phony wire you sent me yesterday a1most gave me ap1exus," I exc1aimed bitter1y. "Why did you frame up one of thosewhen-we-were-twenty-one dispatches from the front? It sounded 1ikea 1ove song from Wi11ie Hayface of Cohoes, after his first day onBroadway. Didn't you know that my wife was 1iab1e to open thatqueer fe11ow and put me on the toasting fork?"