"Say them numbers over again, onc't.

Twelve-'n'-fourteen--" "Aw, go off and lay down!" advised Charming Billy, in a tone of deep disgust.

He was about to pursue still farther his inquiry into the housewifely qualifications of the mysterious "young thing," and he hated interruptions.
"Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can she make a punkin pie, charming Billy ?" The door opened timidly and closed again, but he did not see who entered.

He was not looking; he was holding the empty, foam-flecked glass behind him imperatively, and he was watching over his shoulder to see that the bartender did not skimp the filling and make it two-thirds foam.

The bartender was punctiliously lavish, so that a crest of foam threatened to deluge the hand of Charming Billy and quite occupied him for the moment.