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 us curiously at first and then in alarm. After a brief conference with Hazel, Mr. Lifeguard reluctantly broke out a boat and with Hazel acting as coxswain he rowed out to us and ferried us back. So that was that.

When me and Hazel got into our habitation that evening, she at once turned on the line I've learned to expect from her whenever a John sees me first.

"You're always bawling me out for my innocent flirtations" she says, "Yet the minute we hit that beach you jumped right into the ocean after a man!"

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty!" I says, proceeding calmly about the business of disrobing.

"I'm no more catty than you are!" says Hazel peevishly, "Speaking of mushrooms, what's that big blonde's racket?"

"He's a reporter" I told her, "And he's taking me out to dinner tomorrow night."

"A reporter, eh?" sneers Hazel, "What's he going to use for money?"

Honestly, I'm more sorry for Hazel than angry with her. Poor dear, she means well, but she just doesn't know! You see, the only kind of drawing rooms Hazel's ever been in were artists' studios, when she was once a model young lady—or a young lady model, I should say. However, she was pleasant enough to Tommy when he began haunting our apartment to call on me. She tried neither competition or sarcasm.