Sammy came, not only obediently but humbly, though he never ceased to smile; and he looked her squarely in the eyes.

Polly surveyed him long and earnestly.

“I guess it’s the best thing that could have happened to both of you, but I’ll have a dreadful time looking after such a pair!”

“I’ll look after my husband myself, if you please!” indignantly protested Winnie.

Everybody laughed, and Polly started the popular ceremony of kissing the bride.

Johnny Gamble came thoughtfully from behind the screen.  He had not heard the commotion, nor was he even now aware that Winnie and Sammy had been added to the party.  He had a broken comb in his hand.

“Bruce,” said he, looking steadfastly at the comb, “did you ever feel the need of a comb of your own in a public wash room?”

“I’ve sent a boy six blocks to buy one,” responded Bruce with a surge of recurrent indignation.

“It’s the curse of the nation,” Val earnestly assured him.  “You are ready for the theater.  You have fifteen minutes to spare.  You drop into a gilded palace of crime to drink a highball.  In your earnestness you muss your hair.  You retire to primp.  A comb hangs before you, with one serviceable tooth.  A brush with eight bristles hangs by its side.  You smooth your hair with your towel and go away saddened for ever!”

“The trouble is,” said Colonel Bouncer, “that every man thinks he’s going to carry a neat little pocket-comb in a neat little case, and he buys dozens of them; but he never has one with him.”

“Thanks,” acknowledged Johnny.  “Now suppose you could step into any barber shop, theater, hotel, saloon or depot wash room, drop a nickel in a slot and take out a nice papier-mache comb, paraffined and medicated and sealed in an oiled-paper wrapper.  Would you do it?”

“Just as fast as I could push the button,” agreed Bruce with enthusiasm.

“Well, I’ve just invented that comb,” explained Johnny, smiling.  “Do you think there would be a good business in manufacturing it?”

Courtney, who had been considering the matter gravely, now nodded his head emphatically.

“There’s a handsome fortune in it,” he declared.  “It is one of those little things of which there are enormous quantities used and thrown away each day.  If you want to organize a company to put it on the market, Johnny, I’ll take any amount of stock you think proper—­not only for the investment, but for the pure philanthropy of it.”

“Also for the pure selfishness of it,” laughed Joe Close.  “Courtney wants to be sure to find a private comb in every public wash room.”

“When you get your factory going I wish you’d send a salesman to my head supply man,” requested Mort Washer.  “I’ll buy them by the ton, and every guest who comes into one of my hotels will find a fresh comb in an aseptic wrapper by the side of his individual soap.”

“That will be up to Bruce,” Johnny informed him.  “Bruce intends to manufacture this device at his papier-mache factory.”