Ptomaine Street | Page 5

said, "dear--so dear."
"Yes, great people. You'd love 'em. They're just layin' for you. Come
on, Warble, will you?"
"Yop," she murmured, from his coat pocket, "Sweet, so sweet."
CHAPTER III
Among the rolling stock of a great railroad, a moving mass of steel. A
soft sludge as it came noiselessly to rest beneath the glazed chintz
awnings of the Butterfly Center station.
A faint scent of chypre from Petticoat's cigarette as he alit.
From his private train, which had slithered across the intervening
spaces and slid into its moorings as butter slides from a hot plate.
It is September, cool, green and well-sprinkled.
The obviously important man was followed by a yellow-topped,
rose-cheeked girl, whose eyes were all blue and a yard wide as she
looked about.
About what?
About eighteen.
They were Dr. Big Bill Petticoat and his bride, Warble.
They had been married and had spent their honeymoon in riotous
loving.
It had been transforming. Warble had been frightened to discover how
hungry she could be even on a wedding trip.

Bill had mused to himself; what's the difference between an optimist
and a pessimist? One honeymoon. And now they had reached their
home town. People were not altogether new to Warble. She had seen
them before. But these were her own people, to bathe and encourage
and adorn--and, they didn't seem to need it.
They distressed her. They were so smart. She had always held that
there is no style in America, no chic effects out of Paris.
But here on the terrace of the simple little hewn stone station were
hordes of men and women who seemed to be, mentally, morally and
physically, literally butterflies.
"Isn't there any way of waking them up?" she begged of Petticoat,
grabbing his arm and shaking him.
"These guys? Wake 'em up? What for? They're happy."
"But they're so smug--no, that isn't what I mean. They're so
stick-in-the-mud."
"Look here, Warble, you want to get over your fool idea that because a
woman is slender she isn't adorable. These folks are up to date, snuff
and mischief."
"I know, that's what's biting me. Life seems so hard for them."
"Oh, they don't mind it. Now you must meet the bunch. They're all
down here to meet their husbands or something just as good. Now you
behave yourself."
"Yop."
She had a grip on herself. She was ready to kiss and be friends with
them all. But she was scared at the rackety pack who ballyhooed like
Coney Island and surged down upon her like a Niagara Falls.
She had the impression that all the men had soft voices, large,
embracing arms, gimlet eyes and bored, impersonal smiles. She knew

they were taking her in. Their pleasant hoots and yells of greeting
overcame her.
"Oh, pleathe--pleathe," she lisped.
In her fresh frilled dimity and soft sash of baby-blue Surah, her rolled
white socks disclosing but a few tantalizing inches of seashell-pink calf,
Warble stood, eyes cast down, a pretty, foolish thing,
As soft as young, As gay as soft,
and, to a man, the male population of Butterfly Center fell for her.
Not so the remainder of the citizens.
One of the men was yelling at Petticoat:
"Hop into my car, Bill, Don't see yours--I'll tote the bride-person you've
got there--with joy and gladness." Warble looked at the yeller.
"Can't quite place me, chick, can you?" he grinned at her. "Well I'm
only old Goldwin Leathersham--no use for me in the world but to
spend money. Want me to spend some on you? Here's my old
thing--step up here, Marigold, and be introduced. She's really nicer than
she looks, Mrs. Petticoat."
"Indeed I'm not," Marigold Leathersham cried gaily, "I couldn't
be--nobody could be!"
She came running--a beautiful, slim young woman, with a wealth of
expensive looking gold hair, white and gold teeth that broke into a
lavish smile. Her voice was rich and though she looked above, away
from and through Warble, yet she saw her.
"So glad to welcome you, you pretty baby," she chirruped. "You're
going to love us all, aren't you?"
"Yop," said Warble, and smiled her engaging smile.

"You bet she'll love us," declared Leathersham, "she'll make the world
go round! Hello, Little One," he turned to pat the cheek of a
white-haired, red-faced old lady, who hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed,
stood by, listening in. This, Mrs. Petticoat, is our Lady Bountiful, Mrs.
Charity Givens--noted for her generosity. She ostentatiously heads all
Donation Lists, and she's going to start a rest cure where your
husband's unsuccessful cases may die in peace. And here's one of the
cases. Hello, Iva Payne!"
"Hello," languidly responded a girl like a long pale lily--a Burne-Jones
type, who sometimes carried around a small stained-glass window to
rest her head against.
"Are you really Bill's wife?"