"Why, man, it's wonderful! You _are_ a coolie"-- Wutzler's conical wicker-hat ducked as from a blow.

"I beg your pardon.

I mean, you're--" The shrunken figure pulled itself together.
"You are right," he whispered, in the vernacular.

"To-night I am a coolie--all but the eyes.

Therefore this hat." Heywood stepped back to the door, and popped his head out.