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 flooded the country with stories about her, how she was "discovered" by Mr. Daft on a farm, how her limbs have been insured for a hundred thousand dollars, etc., etc., etc.

Within two days you couldn't pick up a newspaper without seeing a photo of Bee's knees. She got offers to pose for noted artists, go into vaudeville and what-not. But the scream to me was Jerry! This almost Sherlock Holmes, realizing what he had lost, tried to win Bee, but she gave him the air haughtily. She was now Scoop's girl friend!

Bee was grateful to me for my assistance, but she gloated over Hazel's failure to win the prize. The exhired girl sighed that the fresh butter, milk and air, the cackling chickens, the mooing cows, the familiar haystacks and farmhands were now a thing of the past; Bee had exchanged these priceless things for noisy, stuffy, gaudy New York.

"You're sorry?" I asked her.

"Yes," says Bee, crossing her legs with raised skirt, a now unbreakable habit, "I'm sorry I didn't leave that darned old farm and come here long ago!"

As proof of my contention that anything could happen anywhere, I presented the case of Bee to Royal and won the dozen pairs of stockings—which I kept, as Bee had more stockings now than she'd ever wear!

A few days later I got a package in the mail from