—ahem!—I found friend Hazel in a tantrum. We usually keep several tantrums handy, it's a well-appointed place.
Being temporarily fluent with money, we had advertised for a maid to do the cleaning, answer the bulk of Hazel's lavish phone calls and otherwise give us a fair break for about seventy-five a month. We should be annoyed about hoarding jack—you can't take it with you when you decease, because there's no pockets in a shroud!
Hazel leaped up in alarm when I let myself into our domicile.
"My Gawd! What are you doing home this early—did the St. Moe give you the air?" she gasps.
Wouldn't Hazel be a panic on a welcoming committee?
"Sit down and don't be so boisterous!" I says, throwing a twenty-dollar chapeau on what would be a chaise longue if it wasn't a sofa, "Haven't I got as much right to a holiday as you have? You act as if you were a guest here, or something!"
"I'm resting between pictures" remarks Hazel haughtily, striking a Ritzy pose.
"Listen, Hazel" I says, "Don't try to high-hat me—I knew you when you thought Caviar was a tenor! Did you manage to sign up a slavey this morning?"
This innocent question seemed to have the same
