objectionable moods. That would take them down a bit. But, instead, he became something entirely different. With the stealth of the red Indian he effaced himself against a background of well-groomed shrubbery and crept toward the murmur. At last he could hear words above the beating of his heart.
"How can you know?" the Demon was saying. "A child of your age?"
The flapper's tone was calm and confident as one who relates a phenomenon that has become a commonplace.
"I knew it the very first second I ever saw him—something went over me just like that—I can't tell how, but I knew."
"Well, how can you know about him?"
"Oh, him!" The words implied that the flapper had waved a deprecating hand. "Why, I know about him in just the same way; you can't tell how. It comes over you!"
The Demon: (A long-drawn) "U-u-mm!"
The flapper: "And he makes me perfectly furious sometimes, too!"
There was a stir as if they were leaving. Bean retreated a dozen feet before he breathed again. So that was their game, was it? He'd see about that!
He waited for them to emerge, but they had apparently settled to more of this high-handed talk. Then, like an icy wave to engulf him, came a name—"Tommy Hollins." It came in the Demon's voice, indistinguishable words
