CHAPTER V.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PINK PANTALOONS
OH, browf, but it is cold!” said Angie, “browf!—browf!”
And in simple veritude the poor child was frizzified. She was all covered with geese flesh; but then, Angela Bish always was a goose. Anyone is who barks in her sleep.
Nineteen is a terrible age; and the longer you’re nineteen the worse it is; neither girlitude nor yet womanability. Angie hated to think about it. To think about anything at all, in fact, was apt to produce vertigo. She had but one idea—it lived in her head alone, like a cow in a tree. Its name was Get Married.
For to Angie all men were holy. Some had money and some had mastoiditis, but she felt sure she could fit right into any man’s arms and take root. The only trouble was she never had a chance. When men saw Angie coming towards them—always at a gallop—they usually jumped into a taxi
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