I pensively pulled back the covers of my downy bed.
"He's a bellboy," I says, having the time of my life.
"My Gawd!" gasps Hazel, dropping her hair brush. "A bellhop—and I gave him my address!"
"What you need is a guardian, Hazel," I purred with a smile.
"What we both need is keepers!" Hazel angrily cuts me off. "If that dialect comedian ever comes up here he'll run into nothing but grief. I'll about crown him with that vase he made me take!"
A week later, or maybe it wasn't, I'm sitting at the switchboard absorbing my daily dose of culture by reading the ads in the "Pacific Monthly" when a voice remarks:
"I vant Kin-al eight six five three vun and make it sneppy, please!"
In about four minutes I look leisurely up and see a heavy-set youth with an unquestionably broken nose and a face that is strangely familiar. He looks like someone I know, but I don't know who, get me?
"Ven you get 'em, say Kid Rose vishes to speak vit 'em," continues the handsome city chap.
"Kid Rose!" I says in astonishment, thinking of Hershel Rosenberg. "Are you Kid Rose?"
"Absolutely!" he says proudly, swelling up like a balloon, "I"
