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Page 104
"Then," pursued Bean, "along comes Mr. little old George W. Napoleon
Bluff and makes them eat out of his hand in about five minutes. Didn't
he walk over them, though? And they haven't quit thanking him for it
yet. Saw a lot of 'em snivelling over him at that tomb this morning.
Think he'd died only yesterday. You know, I don't blame him so much for
a lot of things he did--fighting and women and all that. He knew what
they'd do to him if he ever for one minute quit bluffing. You know, he
was what I call an upstart."
The flapper stole a hand into his and sighed contentedly.
"You've perfectly worked it all out, haven't you?" she said.
"--and if you come right down to it, I'm nothing but 'n upstart myself."
"Oh, splash!" said the flapper, in loving refutation.
"'S all," he persisted; "just 'n upstart. Of course I don't have to be
one with you. I wouldn't be afraid to tell you anything in the world;
but those others, now; every one else in the world except you; I'll show
'em who's little old George W. Upstart--old man Upstart himself, that's
what!"
"You're a king," declared the flapper in a burst of frankness.
"Eh?" said Bean, a little startled.
"Just a perfectly little old king," persisted the flapper with dreamy
certitude. "Never fooled little George W. Me. Knew it the very first
second. Went over me just like _that_."
"Oh, I'm no king; never was a king; rabbit, I guess. Little old
perfectly upstart rabbit, that's what!"
"What am I?" asked the flapper pointedly.
"Little old flippant flapper, that's what! But you're my Chubbins just
the same; my Chubbins!" and he very softly put his hand to her cheek.
"_Monsieur et Madame sont servi_," said the waiter. He was in the
doorway but discreetly surveyed the evening sky through an already
polished wine-glass held well aloft.
* * * * *
The three perfectly taggers meeting their just due, consulted miserably
as they gathered about a telephone in Paris the following morning. The
Demon had answered the call.
"Says she has it all reasoned out," announced the Demon.
"'S what she said before," grunted Breede. "Tha's nothing new."
"And she says we're snoop-cats and we might as well go back home--now,"
continued the Demon. "Says she's got the--u-u-m-mm!--says to perfectly
quit tagging."
"Nothing can matter now," said the bereaved mother.
"He's talking himself," said the Demon. "Mercy he's got a new
voice ... sounds like another man. He says if we don't beat it out of here
by the next boat--he can imagine nothing of less--something or other I
can't hear--"
"--consequence," snapped Breede.
"Yes, that's it; and now he's laughing and telling her she's a perfectly
flapper."
"Oh, my poor child," murmured the mother.
"Puzzle t' me," said Breede. "I swear I can't make out just how many
kinds of a--"
"James!" said his wife sternly, and indicated the presence of several
interested foreigners.
***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUNKER BEAN***
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