Angela Bish. The can-openers would have done far better to give her an opening.
Her hero only bought a paper of one-ounce tacks to put in his friend’s dog food, and passed out of Angie’s young life.
No, at this epoch, Angela knew as little of flirting as did the Swami Vivekananda, or Carrie Chapman Catt. For in those dull pre-tango days ladies wore low-necked gowns only in the evening; and, save for mere feet, they had no visible means of support. Men, to virtuous Angela, were just a queer kind of women who wore pants and mustaches and hard hats, who smoked cigars, and, if they saw fit, married one. And yet Angie, pure as was her heart, longed wildly to be wild. Every girl does; in fact, if not in fancy. That’s why they are called girls.
We now come to the morning of Angela’s first adventure. Early was she awakened and cheerily by eight pounds of plaster falling from the ceiling upon her face, neck and suburbs. As usual, the vaudeville team in the room above were practising the shimmy dance and massaging each other with their feet. It always bored Angie, this time more
