ister or the kingly floor-walker in a close-fitting Prince-Albert or a movie actor with his eyes beaded or some melancholy-eyed neighbor who is supposed to be misunderstood by his wife. But he must not be too near, or too accessible, otherwise his halo is likely to wither and his glory to fade into the light of common day.
It had been that way, I'm afraid, with Bud, although I had never been able to admit it. For Bud no longer seemed the resplendent being, smelling of Florida water, that he was that morning on Sixth Avenue when Myrtle Menchen stole the kolinsky muff. And my new Hero-Man was quite different from the old one, though there was a coincidence or two in the way they both appeared over the horizon.
Bud was hanging out at the Hotel Breslau, down at Long Beach, and was putting through a coup for milking the bathing-beach lockers during the swimming-hour. The Breslau double locker room is right under the hotel and reached from the shore by passing under the board-walk and in through a tunnel. On one side is the men's locker room, and on the other is the women's, with a slim in charge of one and a flapper in charge of the other. The lockers, of course, were for the use of the hotel
