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The lady key pounder grabs hold of both sides of her table and almost swallows her tuttifrutti, the ostrich necked chap turns pea green, and Mr. Pepper swings his door open and sings out, real cheerful: "Mr. Sweetwater, can't you get yourself mobbed without being so noisy about it? What's up, anyway?" But Sweetwater wasn't a lightnin' calculator.
Mallory comes back lookin' like some one had sold him a billboard seat to a free window show. But that was nothin' to the down-and-out slump I found him in next night, when I goes around for my writin' lesson and so on. "Is it the spino comeandgetus," says I, "or has Miss Tuttifrutti sent back your Christmas card?" "It's worse than either," says he, with his chin on the top button of his vest.
He was a husky youth in a frock coat, with a face like a full moon and a voice that didn't call for any megaphone. The other was a her, and she was a bundle of tuttifrutti, the kind you see floatin' by in sixty horsepowers, all veils and furs and eyes. "Hello, sonny," says he, swingin' up to the brass gate, wearin' a four-inch grin. "Where's the Great Skid?"
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