like the Princess--Princess Nancy Olden--come to wake the
Sleeping Beauty; some dude it'd be that would have curly hair
like Tom Dorgan's, and would wear clothes like my friend
Latimer's, over in Brooklyn.

Can you see me there, standing on one leg like a stork, ready to
lie or to fly at the first sound?

Well, the first sound didn't come. Neither did the second. In
fact, none of 'em came unless I made 'em myself.

Softly as Molly goes when the baby's just dropped off to sleep, I
walked toward an open door. It was a parlor, smelly with tobacco,
and with lots of papers and books around. And nary a
he-beauty--nor any other kind.

I tried the door of a room next to it. A bedroom. But no Beauty.

Silly! Don't you tumble yet? It was a bachelor's apartment, and
the Bachelor Beauty was out, and Princess Nancy had the place all
to herself.

I suppose I really ought to have left my card--or he wouldn't
know who had waked him--but I hadn't intended to go calling when
I left home. So I thought I'd look for one of his as a
souvenir--and anything else of his I could make use of.

There were shirts I'd liked for Tom, dandy colored ones, and
suits with checks in 'em and without. But I wanted something easy
and small and flat, made of crackly printed yellow or green