You're heady then--like your mother's punch when it's 'all mixed up.'" "I must put in more ice," remarked Miss Lansdale, calmly.
"Fatty Budlow is so serious," said the woman child, suspecting that the talk had drifted away from her.
"It's his curse," I admitted.

"If he weren't an A No.

1 dreamer, he'd be too serious to live, but be goes dreaming and maundering along--dreaming that things are about as he would like to have them.

He sees your face and Miss Lansdale's, and then they get mixed up in a queer way, and Miss Kate's face comes out of the picture with such a look in the eyes that a man of ordinary spirit would call her 'Little Miss' right off without ever stopping to think; but of course this Fatty or Horsehead or whatever it is can't say it right out, so he says it to himself about twenty-three or twenty-four thousand times a day, as nearly as he can reckon--he always was weak in arithmetic." "You might let him write in _your_ autograph album," said the woman child, brightly, to Miss Lansdale.
"I know what he'd write if he got the chance," I added incitingly.

But it did not avail.