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He softened, for the lovely burden was becoming delightfully heavy. "Think I'd better not?" he addressed the crowd. "Go on," urged Mr. Glotch. "Oh, well," he decided, "perhaps we'll only go in wading." He reached clumsily down to her foot for her slipper. She squirmed and flushed deeper. "Don't!" she cried. "Don't, Joe!" He disregarded her.
He confessed that that would distress him exceedingly. Into the back seat clambered the two boys with the copper throats. Their names were Glotch and Trumpeter.
The three on the back seat had lapsed into a strange silence that seemed out of place, like death in a boiler shop, and when they finally reached the city limits and passed beneath the glare of the first corner light, he took a look behind him and caught Miss Ardle kissing the imperious Glotch. He turned and looked at Miss Penny. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking demurely at them.
This last Mr. Glotch welcomed with a stentorian shout ably echoed by Mr. Trumpeter, each of whom fell to and consumed a bottle with much assumption of inebriety. After dissembling complete disintegration and coma, Mr. Glotch raised his head from the ground and mourned, "Oh, boy! The guy that named this juice sure was a bum judge of distance." "You said it," echoed Mr.
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