"Honest, Racey, don't you ever get tired of yell-bellerin' thisaway?" Racey Dawson, standing in front of the mirror, ceased not to adjust his necktie.

The handle turned, and, with a sudden release of faculties, darting this way and that, as if at bay, she tore the white-enameled medicine-chest from its moorings, and, with a yell sprung somewhere from the primordial depths of her, stood with it swung to hurl.