"Synthetic." My playmates have thoughtfully brought along an ancient farm rig to drive me to the village, and Hazel, in movie make-up and a Colonial costume, attracts as much attention from the awe-struck yokels hanging around the depot as a fur overcoat would attract in Hades. She explained that she had been working all day and had to dash away to meet me just as she was. Honestly, the disturbance Hazel was creating amongst the natives would have been highly embarrassing to me, but it tickled my girl friend's vanity.
"This is a great tank—it's as dead as Napoleon," says Hazel as we drive away. "Most of the population belong in the comic supplements of the Sunday papers and nowhere else. I've got the male clowns all standing on their ears. I think I'll write Sears-Roebuck for a commission on mail order sales of Klassy-Kut Clothes that the local bloods have ordered to strut with for my entertainment. By the way, Royal Underwood Corona, the fellow who composed our movie, is up here. He's a cute kid, and I think I've goaled him!"
"See if I care," I says. "I've met the boy myself, in fact we broke bread together and caught a show in Manhattan just before I came up here."
Hazel's pretty face was a picture of bafflement and envy.
"For cryin' out loud!" she says peevishly. "It seems
