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 considering putting a notice in the paper, 'All those who sent pickle dishes to Johnny Havens and spouse'"

"Hold up," cried Jock. "Are you going to talk all night, woman? Let me get in a few questions. What are you doing in New York? Where's your husband? And all about it. Bones never writes, you know. I had a string of simple postcards from him from abroad, but I haven't had a word since he got back—except a recipe for making beer, all by itself in an envelope. What's he up to, the old son-of-a-gun?"

"He's working for dad. At least, he thinks he is—dad, of course, thinks differently. Son-of-a-gun is right, he almost broke up my wedding! He was best man, you know, and instead of attempting to cheer poor Johnny up he kept whispering 'She snores,' and little brotherly things like that, all the time I was moseying down the aisle! What else did you ask me? Oh, yes—why, we're living here. Down in Greenwich Village. Johnny's father owns the New York Log, and Johnny—here he comes now! On time, for once in his life. Act as if you're in love with me, Jock—I think that's good for husbands"

People were always conscious of a surprised sensation the first time they saw Johnny Havens. This was because his hair was extremely blonde, almost white, and his eyes and eyebrows were coal-black—a combination so startling that you required a second or two in which to accustom yourself to it. After that you discovered that he was very handsome, and big with a bigness that reminded you of things. Outdoor things. The crack of a shot in a forest. The cut of a boat through wings of spray. Camp fires, and piney air, and gray flannel shirts with corduroy trousers. . . . All of which, in view of the fact that he was suited by