PEGGY-IN-THE-RAIN
magazines?" he demanded as Peter Waring perched himself on the table.
Peter glanced uninterestedly at the article and shook his head. "Search me, old man. I don't. Wish I could. Never was able to string three words together and make sense. What's wrong with this one?"
Gordon hesitated. "Nothing," he answered finally, tossing the magazine aside. "Let's have a drink."
Peter glanced at the gold-rimmed clock over the library door. "Can't," he said, shaking his head. "I'm on the wagon till five. Beastly bore, but it's doctor's orders."
"Well, it'll be five by the time we get back there. Come on. What seems to be the trouble with you, Pete?"
"Doctor says liver. I don't know. I get up feeling like the very devil; don't eat; sleep rotten; grouchy all the time."
"You're in love, Pete."
Peter shook his head quite soberly. "No, that ain't it. I guess it's pickled liver, just like the doctor says. What do you want?"
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