vate yacht. I carefully described the look in the ancient mariner's fishy eyes when he made his generous proposition and Hazel laughed me off.
"You're dizzy!" she says. "That old Rankin is the real McCoy. I'll bet he's a gentleman and a scholar and that yacht has some well-stocked wine vaults aboard. We'd have the time of our lives without any hats broken or any harm in it at all!"
"He wants to go with us," I gently reminded her.
"I can take care of myself anywhere!" brags Hazel. "And for all you know, he may be just a nice old man who loves company."
"Be yourself!" I sneered. "Listen—I have had to get out and walk from nine million automobiles, Hazel, and I don't propose to get out and walk from a yacht!"
So that was all settled.
About ten days before we went down to the sea in ships I met Fighting Paddy Leary. I was breaking in the girl who was going to try and take my place while I was giving Europe a treat when a broad-shouldered, well-dressed young fellow came over to the switchboard. Really he wasn't bad looking, if you forgot about his battered ears and rather long nose.
"Good morning," he says. "Say, will you git me Columbus eight-six-seven-five-four-three and ask for Mister Vasiloff? V-a-s-i-l-o"
"V like in veal?" I interrupt his spelling.
