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FLAMING

YOUTH

“You’re engaged to James?” “We haven’t got that far yet. But I’ve got him on the run.” “Dee!” expostulated her mother, laughing.

“Does he know of your honourable intentions?” queried Osterhout. “He hasn’t expressed his own yet.

But he will.” “When?” “Next time I kiss him.” “Next time, eh? How many times will that make?” ‘‘Haven’t counted, Grandpa,” mocked

the girl.

“We

haven’t pulled many petting parties, though.” “Well, I’m good-and-be-damned,” muttered Osterhout. “Modern stuff, Bob,”? remarked Mona.

“Being an ancient fossil, ’d say dangerous stuff with a fellow like Jameson James.” “Not with a girl like me,” returned Dee with superb assurance. “Bee-lieve muh, I’ve got a hand on the emergency brake every minute.” Osterhout, who had returned to his window seat, gave a

sharp exclamation. ““What’s the matter now?” He rubbed his cheek, growling.

A hoarse, childish voice

from below, which had in it some echo of Mona Fentriss’s

lyric and alluring tones, served to answer the question: ‘Where did I hit you, old Bobs?” “Tt’s the Scrub,” said Dee.

“Don’t you call me ‘Bobs,’ you young devil.” “Oh, all right! Doctor Bobs. Come down. I’ve got a fer-rightful gash in my knee.” “Well, don’t show it to the world. mediately.”

I'll be there im-

“If you want to be the family benefactor,” said Mary