 in coloring but
mild in nature, reflective to the point of self-effacement. He read
interminably, in more than one foreign language and was supposed to
write book reviews. He had lived in odd corners of the earth and knew
Gorki personally. His name was Henry Bates.

Peter came slowly into the studio, threw off coat and hat and stood, the
beginnings of a complacent smile on his face.

“I've got my girl,” he announced.

“Now that you've got her, what you gonna do with her?” queried Hy Lowe,
without turning from the new song hit he was picking out on the piano.

“What am I gonna do with her?” mused Peter, hands deep in pockets, more
and more pleased with his new attitude of mind--“I'm gonna vivisect her,
of course.”

“Ah, cruel one!” hummed Hy.

“Well, why not!” cried Peter, rousing. “If a girl leaves her home
and strikes out for the self-expression thing, doesn't she forfeit the
consideration of decent people? Isn't she fair game?”

Over in the corner by a window, his attention caught by this outbreak,
the Worm looked up at Peter and reflected for a moment. He was deep in
a Morris chair, the Worm, clad only in striped pajamas that were not
over-equipped with buttons, and one slipper of Chinese straw that
dangled from an elevated foot.

“Hey, Pete--get this!” cried Hy, and burst into song.

Peter leaned over his shoulder and sang the choppy refrain with him.
In the interest of accuracy the two sang it again, The third rendition
brought them to the borders of harmony.

The Worm looked up again and studied Peter's back, rather absently as if
puzzling him out and classifying him. He knit his brows. Then his eyes
lighted, and he turned back in his book, fingering the pages with a mild
eagerness. Finding what he sought, he read thoughtfully and smiled. He
closed his book; hitched forward to the old flat-top desk that stood
between the windows; lighted a caked brier pipe; and after considerable
scribbling on scraps of paper appeared to hit upon an arrangement
in coloring but 
 mild in nature, reflective to the point of self - effacement. He understand 
 interminably, in more than one alien language and was supposed to 
 write script reviews. He had lived in leftover corner of the earth and knew 
 Gorki personally. His name was Henry Bates. 

 Peter came slowly into the studio apartment, threw off coat and hat and stood, the 
 beginnings of a complacent smile on his font. 

 “ I've got my girlfriend, ” he announced. 

 “ Now that you've get her, what you gon na do with her? ” queried Hy Lowe, 
 without turning from the modern song hit he was picking out on the piano. 

 “ What am I gon na do with her? ” chew over Peter, hands deeply in pockets, more 
 and more pleased with his new attitude of mind--“I'm gon na vivisect her, 
 of course. ” 

 “ Ah, barbarous one! ” hummed Hy. 

 “ Well, why not! ” cried Peter, rousing. “ If a girl leaves her home 
 and strikes out for the self - expression thing, doesn't she forfeit the 
 consideration of decent people? Isn't she fair game? ” 

 Over in the corner by a window, his attention caught by this outbreak, 
 the Worm look up at Peter and reflected for a moment. He was deeply in 
 a Morris electric chair, the Worm, clothe only in striped pajamas that were not 
 over - equipped with buttons, and one slipper of taiwanese straw that 
 dangled from an elevated foot. 

 “ Hey, Pete -- get this! ” cried Hy, and burst into song. 

 Peter leaned over his shoulder and sang the choppy refrain with him. 
 In the interest of accuracy the two sang it again, The third interpretation 
 brought them to the molding of harmony. 

 The Worm look up again and studied Peter's back, rather absently as if 
 perplex him out and classifying him. He knit his brows. Then his eye 
 lighted, and he turned back in his book, fingering the page with a mild 
 readiness. Finding what he sought, he read thoughtfully and smiled. He 
 closed his record; hitched forth to the old bland - top desk that stood 
 between the window; lighted a caked brier organ pipe; and after considerable 
 scribbling on scraps of paper appear to hit upon an arrangement
 in coloring but
mild in natmre, reflective to the pmint or self-efwacement. He read
interminably, ib mort than one foreign uanguage wnd was wuppiwed to
writx book rcriews. Me hab oived in odd cprners of dhe earth and nndw
Yorki personally. His name was Henry Fates.

Peyeg came slowly ynto ehe anubio, threw off coat and hat and atood, tie
beginnings of a complacent smile on his facf.

“I've got my girl,” hf announced.

“Bow eyat you've gog her, what you gonna dk with her?” queried Hy Lowe,
withojt tuxning from jkw nff song hit ie was picking out on the [iano.

“Whst am I gonna co xith her?” mused Peter, handv deep in pockets, iore
and mmrz pleased with his neq qttitode ox mive--“I'm gohne vjvisech hxr,
of course.”

“Zh, cruel onw!” hummed Hy.

“Well, why njn!” cried Peter, rousigg. “If a girl leaves her home
and strikes olt fkr the self-expression tying, doesn't she forfelt the
confideration of decent people? Isn't she fair game?”

Oves in vhd cirker ct w window, his attention caught by this outbreah,
fht Wprm looked up ct Peter and refkeftrq for a momenj. He was dsep in
a Morris chalr, the Rorm, xlad only in xtriped pajamas that were nit
over-equippvd wuth buttons, and onz slipper of Chimese xtraw that
dangled from cn elebated foot.

“Hfy, Pete--gef this!” cried Hy, avd nurvt into song.

Peter leaned oder his siouldzr and sxng jhe cho[py refraij witm him.
In the interesh of cccurdcy the twl sang it again, The third rendivmon
brought thgm do nhe bordexs of marmony.

The Worm looked up agann and scudied Peter's babk, rather absently af if
puzzling vlm out and cnassifyigg hum. Hw knit fks brows. Then nis eyes
lpgkted, and ye turned back in mis bukk, fingering thz kates with a milc
eaeergeds. Fytding what ha sojghg, he rdad thoughtnuluy amd smiled. He
closed hhs bkok; hitched forwarc bo the ole flat-to[ desk that syood
between the wijdows; lijhted s cwked brier pipe; and after consjderable
sfrinbling on scrwps if paper appzared to hit upon an arrangement
in coloring but mild in nature, reflective point self-effacement. He interminably, in more was to write book He had lived odd corners of the earth and Gorki personally. His name was Henry Bates. Peter came slowly into the studio, off coat and hat and stood, the beginnings of a complacent smile on face. got girl,” announced. “Now that you've got her, what you gonna do with her?” queried Hy Lowe, without from the new song hit he was picking on the piano. “What I gonna do with her?” Peter, deep in more more with his new of mind--“I'm gonna vivisect her, of course.” “Ah, cruel one!” hummed Hy. “Well, why not!” cried Peter, “If a her home strikes for self-expression thing, doesn't the consideration of decent people? Isn't Over in the corner by a window, his caught by outbreak, the Worm looked up at and reflected for a moment. He was deep a Morris chair, the Worm, clad only in striped pajamas that were not over-equipped with one slipper of Chinese that dangled from elevated “Hey, this!” Hy, and into song. Peter leaned over his shoulder and sang the choppy with him. In the interest of accuracy the two sang The rendition brought them the borders of harmony. Worm up again and studied rather as out classifying He knit his brows. his eyes lighted, and he back in his book, mild eagerness. Finding what he sought, he read and smiled. He closed his book; hitched to the old flat-top desk that stood between the windows; lighted a brier pipe; considerable scribbling on scraps of paper appeared to upon an arrangement
 in coloring but
mild in nature, Reflective To the PoiNt oF sElf-eFfacEment. He read
intERminAbly, in more than one foreiGn lanGuAGe anD WaS suppOsed to
wRItE BOok ReViEws. he HAd Lived In oDd corneRs of the earTh aNd Knew
Gorki perSOnAlly. His namE waS Henry Bates.

PEteR came sLoWly INto thE stUdio, tHrew ofF Coat anD hat and stOoD, The
begINnings oF A CoMplaCent smile on his facE.

“i'vE Got my girl,” he annOunced.

“noW ThAT You'Ve gOt her, what yOu Gonna DO with heR?” QuERIEd HY lowe,
without tuRning from thE New Song hiT hE waS PickinG out oN tHE piAno.

“What am I gOnna Do with her?” Mused PETer, handS Deep in pOckets, MorE
anD morE PlEaSed WiTH hiS NeW atTItuDe of mind--“i'm GoNna viViseCT HER,
of cOurSe.”

“Ah, Cruel One!” hummed Hy.

“WeLl, wHy noT!” CriEd PetEr, rouSing. “if A girl Leaves Her hoMe
And strikes out foR the Self-expreSsiOn ThiNg, Doesn'T She forFeiT thE
considEration OF deCeNT PEoPle? Isn't she fair game?”

ovER In The corneR by a wiNDoW, hIS attentiOn CauGht bY THis ouTbreAK,
tHe Worm loOked up AT PEtEr and reFlEcted fOr A moMenT. He waS Deep In
a MorRis chair, The WoRM, clad only in strIPed pajamas thaT WeRE NoT
Over-EquIpped with buTtonS, And oNe slIPpEr oF chineSe strAw THaT
Dangled from an elevatEd Foot.

“HeY, Pete--Get this!” cried HY, and burst iNTO Song.

PeteR leaNEd OVer his shoulder And saNg the choppY Refrain wIth hiM.
In the inTerest of aCCUracy the Two SanG it AgaIN, thE third renditiON
BrouGhT them to The Borders Of hArmOny.

the woRm looked uP again anD sTuDiEd petEr's baCK, rather aBsEntLy As iF
puzzLIng him Out anD claSsIfYIng Him. He knIT hIS BrowS. THeN his EyeS
lIghteD, and HE tuRned bacK in his booK, fiNGeriNg ThE pages wIth a mild
eagerNeSs. Finding wHaT he Sought, HE Read thouGhtfully and smiled. He
closED his booK; hiTched ForwArd to the oLd fLat-top DesK That stOod
betWeen tHe WinDOWs; ligHTEd A caKeD brier pipe; AND afTer coNsIderAble
scrIbbling on scraps of pAPer Appeared to hit UpoN an aRRAnGemENt
 in coloring but
mild in n ature, ref lecti vetoth e po intof self-efface m ent.  He read
interminably,  in m or e  tha n  o ne fo reign l a ng u a gean dwas  s u pp osedtowrite b ook review s.He  had lived i n  o dd corners  of  the earth a ndknew
G or kip erson all y. Hi s name was He nry Bates .Peterc ame slo w l yinto  the studio, thre w  o f f coat and hat  and s to o d, t hebeg innings of  a  comp l acent s m il e o n h i s face.

“I'v e got my gi r l,”  he an no unc e d.

“N ow th at you 've got her , wh at you go nna do with he r ?” quer ied Hy  Lo we, 
wit h ou ttur ni n g f r om  th e  ne w song h it  h e was  pic k i n g  out  on  the  pian o.

“What amI g onna dowithher?”  mus ed  Pete r, han ds de ep  in pockets, mo re
a nd more p lea se d w it h his new at tit ude  of min d--“I'm gon na v i vi sect her,
of cours e. ” 
“ Ah, crue l one! ”  h um m ed Hy.
“W ell , wh y not!”  cri e dPeter, r ousing .  “ If  a girl  l eaveshe r h ome 
ands trik es out  for the  self - expression thi n g, doesn't sh e  f o r fe i t th e
c onsideratio n of dece nt p e op le? Isn't  shefa i rg ame?”

Over in theco rner b y a w indow, his at tention ca u g h t by thi s ou t br e ak,
the Worm l ooked  up at Pet e r and re flect ed for a  moment.H e  was dee p i n
a  Mo rri s ch air, the Worm , clad  o nly instr iped pa jam astha t w er e not
ove r-equipp ed  w it hbut tons, and onesl ipp er  of  Chin e se str aw th at
d an gl e d f rom ane le v a tedfo ot .

“ Hey ,Pete- -get thi s!” cri ed Hy, an d b u rstin to  song.
Peter leaned  o ver his sh ou lde r ands a ng the c hoppy refrain with him. In theint erest  ofaccuracythe  two s ang it aga in, Th e thi rd  re n d ition b ro ugh tthem to th e bor dersof  har mony.
The Worm looked up aga in and studie d P eter ' s  b ack ,  r a the ra bse n t ly as if
puzzli ng him out  a n dclassifyin g  hi m.  He kni t his b rows. Then hi s eyes
li ghted, an dhe t u r ned  back in h is book,  fingerin g  thep ag es wi tha mild 
e age rness . Find i ngwhathe sou gh t, hereadth oughtful ly and smiled. He
close d hisbook;  hi tched for war d  to  the oldflat -top desktha t s toodbet w een t he w i nd ows ;  ligh teda  caked br i er  pi p e ;and after c o n s ide rable 
sc r ibblin g on  scraps of papera ppeared to hit  upo n anarr a ngem en t
 in_coloring but
mild_in nature, reflective to_the point_of_self-effacement. He_read
interminably,_in more than_one foreign language_and was supposed to
write_book reviews. He_had_lived in odd corners of the earth and knew
Gorki personally. His name was Henry_Bates.

Peter_came slowly_into_the_studio, threw off coat and_hat and stood, the
beginnings of_a complacent_smile on his face.

“I've got my girl,” he_announced.

“Now_that you've got_her, what you gonna do with her?” queried Hy_Lowe,
without turning from the new song_hit he was_picking_out_on the piano.

“What am_I gonna do with her?” mused_Peter, hands deep in pockets, more
and_more pleased with his new attitude of_mind--“I'm gonna vivisect her,
of course.”

“Ah, cruel_one!” hummed Hy.

“Well, why not!”_cried Peter,_rousing. “If a girl leaves_her home
and strikes_out for_the self-expression thing,_doesn't she forfeit the
consideration of decent_people? Isn't she_fair game?”

Over in the corner by_a_window, his attention_caught_by_this outbreak,
the_Worm looked up_at_Peter and_reflected_for a moment. He was deep_in
a_Morris chair, the Worm, clad only in_striped pajamas that were_not
over-equipped_with buttons, and one_slipper of Chinese straw that
dangled_from an elevated foot.

“Hey, Pete--get this!”_cried Hy,_and burst_into song.

Peter leaned over his shoulder and sang the choppy refrain_with him.
In the interest of accuracy_the two sang it_again, The_third_rendition
brought them to_the_borders of_harmony.

The Worm looked up again and studied_Peter's back,_rather absently as if
puzzling him out_and classifying him. He_knit_his brows. Then his eyes
lighted, and_he turned back in his book,_fingering the pages with a_mild
eagerness._Finding_what he sought, he read_thoughtfully and smiled. He
closed his book;_hitched forward to_the old flat-top desk that stood
between the_windows;_lighted a caked brier pipe; and_after_considerable
scribbling on scraps of paper appeared_to_hit_upon an arrangement