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For the first time he was pricked with the needle of suspicion that Hollins might not be the right man for the flapper. Hearing her called "Chubbins" somehow made it seem different. Maybe Hollins, who seemed all of twenty, wouldn't "make her happy." He thought it was something that the family ought to consider very seriously.
"I knew your voice the moment I heard it." The madness was upon him and he soared. "You're Chubbins!" He waited. "Cut out the Chubbins stuff, Bill, and get off there!" directed a coarse masculine voice from the unseen wire-world. He got off there with all possible quickness. His first thought was that she probably had not heard the magnificent piece of daring. It was too bad.
"Never fooled little George W. Me. Knew it the very first second. Went over me just like that." "Oh, I'm no king; never was a king; rabbit, I guess. Little old perfectly upstart rabbit, that's what!" "What am I?" asked the flapper pointedly. "Little old flippant flapper, that's what! But you're my Chubbins just the same; my Chubbins!" and he very softly put his hand to her cheek.
He was conscious of a willingness to consider it himself, as a friend of the family and a well-wisher of Chubbins. He was back in the apartment and in the presence of a document that swept his mind of all Breedes. Never had he in fancy ceased to be king Ram-tah, cheated of historic mention because of his wisdom and goodness.
Cassidy's gaze seemed to say, "All right, me lad, but you want t' look out f'r that sort. I know th' kind well!" The car was moving swiftly now, heading for the north and the open. "They cut us off yesterday," said the flapper. "I know I shall simply make a lot of trouble for that operator some day." He wondered if she had heard that mad "Chubbins!"
And inevitably he encountered the flapper in this dreaming; "Chubbins," he liked to call her. More and more he was suspecting that Tommy Hollins was not the man for Chubbins. He would prefer to see her the bride of an older man, two or three, or even four, years older, who was settled in life. A young girl a young girl's parents couldn't be too careful!
Probably he never could do it again. Then he turned and discovered that he had left the door of the telephone booth ajar. Chubbins might not have heard him, but Bulger assuredly had. "Well, well, well!" declaimed Bulger in his best manner. "Look whom we have with us here to-night! Old Mr. George W. Fox Bean, keeping it all under his hat. Chubbins, eh? Some name, that!
Don't tell me you thought it up all by yourself, you word-painter! Miss Chubbsy Chubbins! Where's she work?" Bean saw release. "Little manicure party," he confessed; "certain shop not far from here. Think I'm going to put you wise?" Bulger was pleased at the implication. "Ain't got a friend, has she?" "No," said Bean. "Never did have one.
An adept in lip-reading could have seen it to be "Chubbins." Bean in response leered confession at him. The broker's office was in the adjoining block. "I've just made a little deal," explained Bean to the person who inquired his business. "Here's the check. You know I've got a sort of an idea I'd like a little more of that Federal Express stuff.
He broke away from her at Breede's call. The flapper jerked her head twice at him, very neatly, as the car passed the tennis court. She was beginning a practise volley with Tommy Hollins, who was disporting himself like a young colt. "Chubbins!" he thought. Not a bad name for her, though it had come queerly from Breede.
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