"Oh, Baby!" puffed Jello appreciatively; and Di, dancing, patted gently his fat hand.
Sam soon was steaming up. He had ceased to regret the solo opportunities of the taxi; he greatly preferred a party, after he got there; provided it was a guaranteed, discreet party with no comebacks of reports of him in embarrassing quarters. Sam considered himself a performer; he liked to bring into a group, previously lacking it, a little spontaneous gayness and life.
"I see Meth and Mo have come to our city," he panted, sotto voce, as the music stopped.
"I'll bite," offered Di.
"Methuselah and Moses," explained Sam and pointed them out.
Di identified them, by matching them up with her mental memoranda of Art Slengel's descriptions of the guests' physical peculiarities and their business importance, made for her guidance during the evening. Methuselah must be the manufacturer from a small city in Wisconsin; eight thousand a year, he might throw to the Slengels. Moses owned a plant in Iowa capable of consuming perhaps ten thousand dollars worth, yearly, of the Slengel—or the Rountree—product. Neither was to be compared, in present or prospective importance, to the Mettens.
Loudly Di laughed at Jello's quip, eliciting from Mo's partner the demand: "Hey, if it's that good, broadcast it!"
"Impossible!" shrieked Di. "Oh you censors!" And she slapped Sam's fat wrist.
Jello, delighted at the imputation of devilishness, ex-
