“Whiffo!” says I.  “That is something to have wished onto you!  Looks like a caterpillar in a dream.”

“That’s right,” says Ferdy.  “It’s been a perfect nightmare to me ever since Marjorie bought it.  But I can’t hurt her feelings by refusing to wear it.  And this silly hat too—­a scarf instead of a band!”

It’s almost pathetic the way Ferdy holds the lid off at arm’s length and gazes indignant at it.

“Draped real sweet, ain’t it?” says I.  “But most of the smart chappies are wearin’ ’em that way, you know.”

“Not this sickly green shade, though,” says Ferdy plaintive.  “I wish Marjorie wouldn’t get such things for me.  I—­I’ve always been rather particular about my hats and ties.  I like them quiet, you understand.”

“You would get married, though,” says I.  “But, say, can’t you do a duck by changing after you leave home?”

Seems the idea hadn’t occurred to Ferdy.  “But how?  Where?” says he, brightenin’ up.

“In the limousine as you’re drivin’ down to the station,” says I.  “You could keep an extra outfit in the car.”

“By Jove!” says Ferdy.  “Then I could change again on the way home, couldn’t I?  And if Marjorie didn’t know, she wouldn’t——­”

“You’ve surrounded the plot of the piece,” says I.  “Now go to it.  There’s a gents’ furnisher down in the arcade.”

He’s halfway out to the elevator before it occurs to him that he ain’t responded with any grateful remarks; so back he comes to tell how much obliged he is.

“And, Torchy,” he adds, “you know you haven’t been out to see baby yet.  Why, you must see little Ferdinand!”

“Ye-e-es, I been meanin’ to,” says I, maybe not wildly enthusiastic.  “I expect he’s quite a kid by this time.”

“Eleven months lacking four days,” says Ferdy, his face beamin’.  “Wait!  I want to show you his latest picture.  Really wonderful youngster, I tell you.”

So I has to inspect a snapshot that Ferdy produces from his pocketbook; and, while it looks about as insignificant as most of ’em, I pumps up some gushy remarks which seem to make a hit with Ferdy.

“Couldn’t you come out Sunday?” says he.

“’Fraid not,” says I.  “In fact, I’m booked up for quite a spell.”

“Too bad,” says Ferdy, “for we’re almost alone now,—­only Peggy and Jane—­my little nieces, you know—­and Miss Hemmingway, who——­”

“Vee?” says I, comin’ straight up on my toes.  “Say, Ferdy, I think I can break away Sunday, after all.  Ought to see that youngster of yours, hadn’t I?  Must be mighty cute by now.”

“Oh, he is,” says Ferdy; “but if you can’t come this week——­”

“Got to,” says I. “’Leven months, and me never so much as chucked him under the chin once!  Gee! how careless of me!”

“All right, Sunday next,” says Ferdy.  “We shall look for you.”

That was throwin’ in reverse a little sudden, I admit; but my chances of gettin’ within hailin’ distance of Vee ain’t so many that I can afford to overlook any bets.  Besides, up at Marjorie’s is about the only place where I don’t have to run the gauntlet goin’ in, or do a slide for life comin’ out.  She’ll shinny on my side every trip, Marjorie will—­and believe me I need it all!