HE days passed rapidly and the nights had no flies on them either. The whole world was beginning to talk about Herman Pupick.
Until Cutie had come into this crepe hanger’s life, Herman had been only a cold and plodding censor. But after spending a week in our warm mamma’s bungalow discussing ways and means to throw the hooks into the Devil, Herman was a changed man.
He closed up all the dance halls by writing letters to the papers and caused the arrest of twenty-nine authors in Schlogl’s restaurant, suppressed the Chicago Literary Times, wiped out all the bookleggers, and had all the abdominal belt displays taken out of all the drug store windows.
There was even some talk of his running for President on the Smut Hounds’ ticket. But Herman wouldn’t listen to this.
“The government is paying me $29 a week to clean up the nation,” said our hero simply, taking Cutie in his arms one evening, “and I can do more good where I am.”
Mrs. Pupick didn’t read the newspapers because she had no interest in rape. When Herman failed to report for his farina the first morning, Mrs. Pupick was worried. She feared he might have been run over by a kiddie car.
All that day she sat and waited. At night she prayed and sang hymns. But it did no good. So at dawn she telephoned her neighbor’s husband who was a dog catcher for a Greek restaurant and asked him if he had seen our hero.
When he said he hadn’t seen Herman for two days, Mrs. Pupick put on her Sunday wig and sat in front of the parlor window.
On the ninth day this onion sack was rewarded for her vigil. Looking out of the window, she saw her missing link parading down the street with three dizzy broads hanging on his arms. “The Lord have mercy on my poor soul,” gulped Mrs. Pupick, and fell to the floor with a crash.
When she opened her eyes, Herman was bending over her. He had unbuttoned her cast iron shirt waist to give her air. Mrs. Pupick pulled the rug over her in confusion and sat up.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
Our hero breathed with relief.
“Thank God you are alive!” he lied like a dog. “I have been busy censoring and reforming, my dear. I want you to meet my assistants.”
Taking a fire gong out of his pocket Herman smote it with a monkey wrench. Three vampires leaped out of the kitchen in response. One of them was Cutie, the other two were her sisters in God.
“Meet my staff,” Herman spoke up. “Staff, this is Mrs. Pupick.”
“Hot baby!” cried Cutie, “you don’t mean that you are married and that this bag of prunes is the wife?”
“Yes,” said Herman frankly. “Be kind to her, for she will be a great help to us in our work.”
Cutie’s two friends poked their fingers in Mrs. Pupick’s stomach to see if she was real.
“You vile wretch,” our warm mamma cut loose, “so this is the way you have been deceiving me! Getting me to repent and repent and all the time with a ball and chain waiting for you at home.”
Mrs. Pupick staggered to her feet and grabbed a hat pin off the dresser. Before anybody could sandbag her she had run the hat pin into Cutie’s left chest. Our heroine let out a moan and fell on the bed just as two newspaper reporters and a press photographer were ringing the door bell.