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Show Ill* and pulled down the white fur coat. She danced around the room in it, swinging the muff like a feather boa. "After we go on a spree," she asked, "then what?" No one answered. I was far away with my own thoughts of Wyoming and horses and silver-studded saddles. And thick beefsteak. Caribou was talking to a faded picture of his Josephine. "I'm wealthy," he whispered. "But I'm a toothless old man." He covered his face with his large rough hands. And moaned. Tip put her arms around him, patting his shoulders. "She'll love you just the same, Caribou. Don't fret about it." She plopped down on his lap like a clumsy polar bear. "Have you ever heard of false teeth, Caribou? Lots of rich old people have them. They click a little, but-" Caribou smiled, a bit sadly. "You're right, my Tipsy. Who cares about a little clicking?" For no particular reason except that I was almost a millionaire, I grabbed the muff from Tip. She grabbed it back. We jostled back and forth with it-until we heard it rip. "Now look what you've done," she cried. "You've tom it." I felt sorry, and I reached inside to see what damage I had caused. My hand slid inside the torn lining and touched something peculiar-an envelope. I drew it out quickly. It was addressed to Tzipporah Trattner. |