"Do you think Mary is going to marry that--that crook?" demanded
Waddles.
"That's what they say."
More cheese.
"I'd like to tell her," said Waddles thoughtfully, "but it's just one of
the things that isn't being done this season. I'd like to give her a
line on that handsome scalawag--before it's too late. I can't waltz up
to her and tell her that he's bogus. There must be some other way. But
how? How?"
Waddles sighed and attacked the cheese again. You'd hardly think that a
man could get an inspiration out of the kind of cheese that our House
Committee buys to give away, but before Waddles left the club that
evening he informed me that a mixed-foursome tournament wouldn't be half
bad--for a change.
"You won't get many entries," said I. "You know how the men fight shy of
any golf with women in it."
"Don't want many."
"Then why a tournament?" I asked. "The entry fees won't pay for the
cups."
"I'm giving the cups," said Waddles, and investigated the cheese bowl
once more. "Two of 'em. One male cup and one female cup. About sixteen
dollars they'll set me back, but I've an idea--just a sneaking,
lingering scrap of a notion--that I'll get my money's worth."
And he went away mumbling to himself and blowing cracker crumbs out of
his mouth.