“Thanks, Mrs. Hemmingway,” says I.  “Maybe you’ll do as much for me some time, eh?”

“Why—­er—­certainly I will,” says Auntie, catchin’ her breath a little.

I had just sense enough to let it ride at that, for you can’t push a thing too far before breakfast.  But I didn’t mean to let this grand little idea of mine grow cold.  It struck me that, if ever I was goin’ to call for a show-down from Auntie, this was the day.

So, when I finally turned in for a forenoon nap, I was busier plottin’ out just how it ought to be done than I was at makin’ up lost sleep.  I ain’t one of them that can romp around all night, though, and then do the fretful toss on the hay for very long after I’ve hit the pillow.  First thing I knew, I was pryin’ my eyes open to find that it’s almost 1:30 P.M., and with the sun beatin’ straight down on the deck overhead I don’t need to turn on any steam heat in the stateroom.

A good souse in a tubful of salty Gulf water wakes me up all over, and when I’ve dolled myself in a fresh Palm Beach suit and a soft collared shirt I’m feelin’ like Winnin’ Willie.

As it happens, Vee and I has the luncheon table to ourselves that day, neither Auntie nor Mr. Ellins havin’ shown up, and the others bein’ all through.  And somehow Vee always does have that look of—­well, as though she’d just blown in from the rose garden.  You know, kind of clean and crisp and—­and honeysuckley.  Maybe it’s that pinky-white complexion of hers, or the simple way she dresses.  Anyway, she looks good enough to eat.  Don’t do to tell ’em so, though.

“Good morning, Torchy,” says she, chirky and sweet.

“Wrong on two counts, young lady,” says I, ticklin’ her ear playful as I passes.

“Really?” says she, delayin’ her attack on a grapefruit.  “Just how?”

“It’s afternoon, for one item,” says I.  “And say, why not ditch that juvenile hail?  Torchy, Torchy!  Seems to me I ought to be mistered to-day.  Someone ought to do it, anyway.”

“Why to-day any more than yesterday?” asks Vee.

I waits until the dinin’-room steward has faded, and then I remarks haughty:  “Maybe it ain’t come to you that I’m a near-plute now.”

“Pooh!” says Vee.  “You’re not a bit richer than I am.”

“Boy, page the auditin’ committee!” says I.  “How strong do you tally up?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” says she.  “Neither do you, Mister Torchy.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” says I.  “I’ve got just the same as you.”

Vee runs out the tip of her tongue at me.

“That’s the sort of disposition,” says she, “which goes with red hair.”

“Towhead yourself!” says I.  “What kind of a scramble has the cook got on the eggs to-day?”

“You’d better order soft-boiled,” says Vee.  “I’ll open them for you.”

“Will you?” says I.  “Just this once, or does that stand?”

“This—­this is so abrupt!” says Vee, snickerin’.