think you are up yet.”

“We’re not� to him,” one of the dancers, a vivacious young Venus, retorted. “Nor are we to you either. So run along, little boy. Run along.”

“Look here, Lute,” Forrest began sternly. “Just because I am a decrepit old man, and just because you are eighteen, just eighteen, and happen to be my wife’s sister, you needn’t presume to put the high and mighty over on me. Don’t forget — and I state the fact, disagreeable as it may be, for Rita’s sake — don’t forget that in the past ten years I’ve paddled you more disgraceful times than you care to dare me to enumerate.

“It is true, I am not so young as I used to was, but —