Sammy folded his hands and shook his head sorrowfully. "Huh! Want men! Now if I only had whiskers like Blinky. Why, 'course I 'm a cowboy. Regular one—but I can outgrow it easy. I 'm a sorta maverick an' I 'm willin' to wear a nice brand. My name's Sammy Porter," he suggested.
"That's nice. Mine is n't nice."
"Easy to change it. Really like mine?"
"Coffee strong enough?"
"Sumptious. How long 's Mrs. Olmstead going to be sick?"
Her face clouded. "I don't know. I hope it will not be for long. She 's had so much trouble the past year. Oh, wait! I forgot the toast!" and she sped lightly away to rescue the burning bread.
The front door opened and slammed shut, the newcomer dropping into the nearest chair. He pounded on the table. "Hello, there! I want somethin' to eat, quick!"
Sammy turned and saw a portly, flashily dressed drummer whose importance was written
