Lame but happy, Angie tottered home. If she had been friends with the undertaker she would have asked him to embalm her feet; they felt like hot Frankfurters with mustard. You must have seen them—Frankfurters—but think of being them! But Angie fell asleep and dreamed that she was married to a Chilean chiropodist who made her dance on sandpaper. At the beatified expression of her face and neck the mosquitoes laughed heartily, all night long.
But, no matter how happy a Thursday may be, the next day is sure to be Friday. Angie’s toes were still so rare that she was forced to crawl to the Café Noir on her hands and knees. She felt a bit conspicuous, but no one had ever noticed her before, and she was touched. Many people touched her. Benevolent old gentlemen in fur collars poked kindly at her with their canes and wept. “Somebody’s daughter, perhaps,” they said, “who knows!” Then they stepped over her and went their way.
She was somewhat annoyed, however, when crossing the street, by the way full grown automobiles strolled across her spine. It hurt her to think they could be so hard
