à la Doughnut in the fetching white flour sack that was to be her wedding dress, opened her sleepified eyes to discover Mr. Frimp opening her packing case.
“Angela,” he remarked, “will your love be as subsequent as it is previous?”
Angie frothed at the mouth.
“I need a little cash tonight," Mr. Frimp continuated, “and all the banks have gone to bed. I cannot afford an automobile for our bridal trip, but I can get a really beautiful wheelbarrow cheap. Could you lend me a few thousand till tomorrow?”
A strange sound came from Angie’s ears. “Frimp,” she said, at last, “I have only seven and a half cents to my name. I earned it keeping out of sight of the garbage man. I always give him a pain, and tonight, having acute indigestion, he couldn’t risk seeing me. God knows I need the money for the little trifles women love to have on their wedding day, but—”
“You have no money?” gasped Mr. Frimp.
“Not many money—but they are yours!”
“But that five thousand you told the President of the Spaghetti of?”
