three little Mullins. Alice could hear Mr. Bill Mullins booming:
"Well, Tom, old top, when we used to train together little you thought you'd see me driving up in my own two thousand dollar car—and my old girl with diamonds all over her!"
Tom stormed up the stairs, crying:
"Say, Alice, Bill Mullins has turned up! You must have heard me speak of him."
"No, I haven't," said Alice. Incredibly, he liked these people.
"Oh, yes, you have—he was our town's bad boy. Why, I almost got expelled from school trying to live up to Bill. He was my ideal. I copied him in everything at least one whole year. Why, Alice, of course you have! He was the fellow who taught me to play baseball!"
"I've never heard you speak of Mr. Mullins," insisted Alice, still more coldly.
Tom waved this aside. He had weightier matters to discuss.
"Listen here," he said, "they'll all, of course, stay to supper, and you can see for yourself what kind of people they are—their tables just groan! Bill's mother, I remember, was a bang-up cook. It was one of those families where pies get baked by the dozen, not just a little anemic pie or so. And I want you to have some broiled chicken and hot biscuit and a grand peach shortcake."
"Broiled chicken?" interrupted Alice, "Why don't you ask me to serve a few little diamond croquettes, or something?"
"Why, what's the matter with you, Alice?" Tom cried sorrowfully.
"There's nothing the matter with me," said Alice.
