LITMIR.BIZ

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bats you on the knob with baby mitts an’ whispers ‘Dad!’ in your re­ceiver. It sets on your knee an’ hands you a kiss, front o’ the fireplace when the snow is blowin’ outside. Oh, it’s the smooth proposition, kid, surest thing you know!”

      “Uh-huh?”

      “Nix on this rovin’, Ben! Nix, not, no more! No more raw deals. All it means is, even hidin’ up like here, al­ways afraid somebody’s goin’ to cook us, after all.

      “It means stir, in time; a slip-up, somewhere, some day; and for a finish, the slab an’ the table. I been thinkin’, kid, thinkin’ long an’ hard.

      “Me for the happy home, the fam­ily, the peachy frau, the lawn-mower, hose, garden, an’ all thereto appertain-in’. An’ when it’s time to blow my light out, no crocus carvin’ me an’ no pine board, but a right pebble over me, plumb respectable, Ben—past all squared an’ forgotten—A-1 turn-out with a dozen hacks, an’ the ‘Sacred to the Memory of’ just as big as any of ’em!”

      Pause. Silence. In the moonlight a close observer could have perceived the huge fellow’s Adam’s-apple work­ing convulsively, while a tear gleamed in his blinking eye.

      Ben seemed pondering. Up to the pals, from the asphalted side street, rose a clack-clack-clack of hoofs. A trolley-gong clashed on the avenue, and, farther off, the roar of an L train broke the evening calm.

      Ben, his face very grim, yet with a certain air of relief, tossed his cigar out of the window and turned toward his side-partner.

      “Straight dope?” he demanded sternly. “No phony gag, but the real thing?”

      “Realest ever! I got the love-bug, kid. It’s put this con life of ours on the fritz, for fair! I’m goin’ to square it, an’ be a hick, myself. Why? You ain’t peeved with me, are you?”

      “Peeved nothing! Delighted! Here, let me mitt you, old boy. Go to it!”

      Ben thrust out his hand, which Pod wrung with a sudden burst of gratitude and affection.

      “That’s the way to pass it out!” exclaimed the big fellow, in a choking voice. “I been leary of pullin’ it on you, kid, ’cause I didn’t know but you’d sit up and howl. But I see now—”

      “You’re on. Congratulations! Fact is, old boy, the same idea has been flag­ging me, too, some time past. Only I didn’t hardly dare to pull it on you. But now—”

      “You?” blurted Pod, gaping. “You stung, too? My Gawd! So then, if we split, it’ll be O. K. on both sides, an’ both of us in the clover-bed? Fine! Who’s the skirt, Ben? Who, what, an’ where?”

      A knock on the door interrupted this heart-to-heart.

      “Come!” boomed Slats.

      A bellhop appeared with the usual evening tray, neatly overspread with a spotless damask. As though well used to the task, he switched on the light, and deftly spread the festive board on the pals’ center table.

      The two old friends and co-grafters watched the proceedings with satisfac­tion. Evidently, love as yet had not advanced to the stage where appetite had begun to fail.

      His work done, the hop departed. Pod and Ben drew up to the bounteous feast, but something was on the big fellow’s mind. He gazed on the pud­ding and shook his head, then glanced at his pal inquiringly.

      “Ben?”

      “What?”

      “You didn’t know I was some wri­ter, did you?”

      Ben, just unfolding his napkin, stared in amazement.

      “Writer? Scratch-work, or how?”

      “No, billy-doo’s. Say, Ben, I—I don’t feel like the eats till I’ve got this off my chest, like. I want you to listen to this here letter I’ve doped out for—for her, you tumble.

      “Listen, an’ then throw me the straight spiel. Is it the right goods or ain’t it? Is it billed to make a center-shot an’ ring the bell, the weddin’-bell, or—or is it a frosty freeze? Is—”

      “You mean you’ve been framing some love-stuff?”

      Slats nodded.

      “Just hold back on the feeds till you let this trickle into your think-tank,” he adjured, producing a folded sheet of scented lavender paper from his breast pocket, left side, nearest the cardiac apparatus.

      “Go ahead and fire!” exclaimed Ben, eagerly eying the tray.

      “All right, kid. Now, you just listen to some proposal!”

      Hotel de Luxe,

      Today and Every Day.

      My Own Hummingbird!

      My Bunch Of Velvet Taffy!

      Oh, you kid! This is to Wise you that you have certainly Put one over hard on Yours Forever. For many years I thought I never would Kick in on this here Love whirl, but you have Sloughed me for fair. To say you are the Goods, is putting it so feeble it’s almost an insult. When I gaze upon you, I am just Nuts to tear into the Sweet Home racket, with Ivy round the door. Do you get me, Hun?

      I am truly Dippy to throw my Net over you and cop yon off, all for my lonesome. I’ve got the strong Hunch we could lope to where the Roses bloom and the robins nest again, and you would be my Dove and I would be your Pouter pigeon for life.

      “Say, Ben, ain’t that some poet­ical?”

      * * * * *

      You are my great, big beautiful Doll, believe me! This is no needle monologue, but the goods, and I have the Wad to back it. The first time I ever Lamped you, it was a knockout, and I took the mat for ten. I could see you Coming, even then, and ever since, you’ve been Getting it on me, worse and more of it, Now, Dear heart, don’t Crab a loving soul by no icy Mitt gag, for believe me, though I may not be such a Romeo to look at, my heart and Bundle are in the right place.

      I know I could carry some class, myself, with you for a running-mate. When I get my front on, I’m not half hard to be­hold. And I’m strictly on the Level in this deal, no Phony. You tie up to me, and you’ll know you’ve got a real man, no Shrimp half portions, but the 18-K article.

      The Rose is red, the Grass is green,

      You are my Queen,

      The fairest ever Seen,

      So be mine, or I’ll repine,

      Be my Love, my beautiful Dove,

      And forever I’ll be true to you,

      With Ivy twining round the door!

      * * * *

      Pod paused, breathing heavily, and swabbed his brow with a napkin.

      “How about it, kid?” he demanded anxiously. “Is it the goods, or ain’t it? Poetry, too!”

      “Some literature, all right!” assert­ed Ben, gazing away, “But do you think ‘you’ and ‘door’ make an O. K. rime? ‘You’ and ‘in the stew’ would go, but—”

      Slats snorted with disgust.

      “Stew, you lob!” he cried. “That shows how much poetic feelin’ you got! Why, this here’s blank verse, the last two lines. Blank verse! That’s the swellest kind!”

      “Oh, that’s so, too. I forgot. It’s blank, all right. Yes, it’s the goods. Any more?”

      “Some! And it ought to be the hot stuff, too. Took me the best part of ten days to frame it! There’s better comin’, too. Just take a slant at this, will you?”

      If you think you could fall for me, Kiddo, say the word and you’re on, for life! Cupid has went and handed you my whole flock of goats, that’s no pipe. What do you say we bunch our play, from now on? You’d sure be some Classy pal

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