the calico. 

 But I'm something of a Mr. Fox myself on rare occasions, and I couldn't see Lionel doing a two-step through the farm lands with my Esmeralda—not through the opera glasses. 

 Clara Jane introduced me to His Pinkness and he invited us in the clubhouse to throttle our thirsts. 

 I ordered a rickey, Clara Jane called for a lemonade, and Lionel's guess was a pail of Vichy and milk. 

 When the suds rolled up I gave the Vichy stuff the sad eye and Lionel caught the gaze. 

 I could see that he wanted to back pedal right then, but he waited until the next round and then he waded out among the high boys. 

 It was the bluff of his life. 

 His limit on bug bitters was imported ginger ale with a piece of lime in it. 

 When he was out roystering and didn't care what became of him he would tell the bartender to add a dash of phosphates. 

 But now he made up his mind to splash around in the tide waters just because the lady was looking on. 

 Lionel felt that the future was at stake and he must cut out the saw-dust extracts and get busy with the grown-up booze. 

 After the first high ball Lionel began to chatter and mention money. 

 The mocking birds were singing down on the old bayou, and he began to give Clara Jane the loving leer. 

 She grew a bit uneasy and wanted to start the paddle wheels, but I signalled to the waiter because I wished her to see her Society slob at his best. 

 At first he insisted upon dragging out a basket of Ruinart, and he wanted to order rubber boots so we could slosh around in it. 

 But I steered him off and he went all the way up the hill and picked out another high fellow. 

 When the second high was under cover he reached over and patted Clara Jane on the hand. 

 He wanted to lead her away to Paris and show her everything that money could buy. 

 When she gave him the "Sir!" gag he apologized and said he didn't mean Paris, he meant the Pan-American. 

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