Porgie talked steadily and uninterruptedly. He told her in detail of his
ragpicking plans and how perfectly she would fit in.
"Think of it!" he boomed. "No fetters of fashion, no gyves of convention.
Free--free as air--free verse, free love, free lunch--ah, goroo--goroo!"
"Goroo--" agreed Warble, "sweet--sweet--"
"Sweet yourself!" roared Porgie, and grabbed her all up in his gorilla-like
arms just as a ringing, musical, "Ship ahoy!" sounded on their ears.
"Hello there, Warbie!"
She knew then it was Petticoat.
"Having a walk?" he inquired, casually.
"Yop," she casualed back.
He pulled his skiff up alongside, threw Porgie into the deep pool and
snatched Warble in beside himself.
"Time to go home," he said, cheerfully. "Good night, Sproggins."
He took her into the house through the conservatory, paused to pluck and
twine a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds for her, adjusted it on her rather
touseled curls, and took her out to the Moorish Courtyard.
"Now, Warb, what about the baboon?" "I want to go ragpick with him and be
pag-rickers together. Can I? Pleathe--"
"Nixy. Now, you hark at me. I'm the real thing--a good old
Cotton-Petticoat--birth, breeding and boodle. Your Porgie person has none
of these--"
"But he loves me!" Warble wailed.
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