The Wimple

This may sound very, very funny, but suppose you were asked suddenly for a wimple — come, come, no peeping at the end of the story


The Wimple

This may sound very, very funny, but suppose you were asked suddenly for a wimple — come, come, no peeping at the end of the story


The Wimple

This may sound very, very funny, but suppose you were asked suddenly for a wimple — come, come, no peeping at the end of the story


WHEN Mr. Bellington sat at his noble walnut desk in his private office he was a fine figure of a forceful American business man, but when he got into his

golf clothes he looked rather amusing. Mr. Bellington had a great deal of overhang in front. The professional at the club had said, in giving Mr. Bellington his first golf lesson, "Forr a gentleman of yourr build, sirr, the orrdinarry stance isna the prroperr stance. Trry standin' a bit more arround t' the left, sirr, so yourr elbow disna boomp into yourr stom—so yourr elbow will swing clearr of yourrsel',

THE next Friday evening, which was the twentieth of the month, Mr. Bellington sat in his library -and a library in a Park Avenue apartment can be a sumptuous affair and he was reading the evening paper. On the library table was a lamp with a shade that had cost sixty-two dollars and had a fringe five inches long, and under it was a small standing calendar in a carved ivory frame. It was one of those calendars with a card for each month.

Together with this considerable convexity of front,

Mr. Bellington had a certain pomposity of manner not extremely rare among men of his height; and in his case this was p obably justified because Mr. Bellington .tad by his own efforts elevated himself from practically nothing to the presidency of the Bellington Ringbolt Company - incorporated, of course.

“No,” said Mr. Bellington to his wife on a certain Tuesday, "I don’t believe I would. I don’t think so.

I prefer not.”

Mrs. Bellington had suggested the purchase of a peke. She had a limousine, a Park Avenue apartment, friends, card parties, three maids, a chauffeur, diamonds and a superb radio, but she thought she wanted a peke, probably because most of her friends had pekes, and she had suggested—in the tentative way in which wives suggest things to husbands who are apt to get red in the face and explode—that it might be nice to have a peke.

When Mr. Bellington was just beginning to be known as the Ringbolt King, he had gone with Mrs. Bellington to a tea at Myra Branting’s, and Myra Branting's cocoa-colored peke had promptly nipped Mr. Bellington’s silk-clad ankle, and since that day Mr. Bellington had been firmly against dogs in the house and particularly against Pekinese dogs in the house.

"No,” said Mr. Bellington on this Tuesday when his wife asked if perhaps it would not be nice to buy a peke. “No, I don't believe I would. I don’t think so.

I prefer not.”

And that settled it. Mr. Bellington turned the page of his newspaper, and that meant that the matter was to be dismissed and forgotten.

Mr. Bellington was not getting much light from the lamp, and he put out a hand to draw the lamp a little closer to the edge of the table ' when his eyes alighted on the calendar. Instantly a wave of panic swept through him. He had a sudden lost feeling, as if the earth had vanished from under him and he was nobody and nowhere. The inside of Mr. Bellington felt hollow as if his entire being had collapsed.

Five of the dates on the calendar were printed in red, meaning that they were Sundays, and around the red twenty-two someone had drawn a circle in black pencil—a very soft black pencil and a very black circle. No one but Mrs. Bellington could have drawn that black circle around the red twenty-two. and Mr. Bellington’s panic was because he

had up to that moment forgotten that the twenty-second of June was his wife's wedding anniversary. His own, too, but that was hardly important.

Wives—and rather especially Mrs. Bellington—believe that wedding anniversaries are important; husbands, satisfied in the knowledge that the wedding has given them God’s best gift to man, seem more inclined to forget the date. It seems to some wives that husbands try to forget the date.

Mrs. Bellington was one of the womèn who feel that forgetting the date is a personal affront.

The year before this, Mr. Bellington had forgotten the anniversary date entirely until he came home and found Mrs. Bellington in tears on her bed, not dressed for dinner. She had been almost inconsolable, and Mr. Bellington had been miserably uncomfortable over it all. He had sworn he did not know how he had forgotten and that he would never forget again, and that was why the sudden understanding of the meaning of the black circle made his blood stop running.

In that first instant he had not been able to think. In his panic he could not instantly remember whether Sunday the twenty-second was next Sunday or last Sunday, nor what day today was. He felt only a great fright because he had utterly forgotten that he had been married in June; that he had entirely failed to remember the anniversary. He had feeling that all was lost, including honor.

Then his brain came back from Betelguese or more distant parts and thumped into its brainpan again and began to palpitate feebly. He recalled that this was Friday the twentieth. He remembered that the next day was Saturday the twenty-first and not Sunday the twenty-second, and he put up a cold hand and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. He took a long, deep breath. He was not ruined; all was not lost, including honor. He had plenty of time to buy a present for presentation to his wife on the morning of Sunday the twenty-second. He breathed freely again and a warm flow of blood coursed through his veins.

He felt fine. He felt noble. He had not forgotten his wife’s wedding anniversary.

Across the hall, in her bedroom, Mrs. Bellington was with Gloria Cornish, her dearest friend, and she had donned her new dinner gown to show Gloria Cornish just how beautiful the new dinner gown was; and as Mr. Bellington came out of his daze of fright he heard his wife’s voice.

“What this dress needs,” she said, “is a wimple.”

Mr. Bellington cocked his ears, leaning slightly toward the hall, but Mrs. Bellington closed her bedroom door. Or perhaps Gloria Cornish closed it. To Mr. Bellington it had seemed that his wife had given her words a certain peculiar meaning. He felt that she had spoken the words quite loudly, as if she had meant him to hear them, and she had undoubtedly given a little laugh at the end of them, as if she was giving somebody a hint.

Mr. Bellington took out his little red leather diary memorandum and wrote, under the date of Saturday, June twentyone, “Wimple,” and put the book back in his pocket. In his vast relief through having remembered his wife’s anniversary date, he was prepared to give his wife anything she wanted. If she wanted a wimple to wear with the new dinner gown he would certainly give her a wimple—and a good one.

THE next morning, when she kissed him good-by, Mrs.

Bellington said nothing about the wedding anniversary, but Mr. Bellington was certain that she looked at him in a rather peculiar way. Her eyes seemed to be saying “I wonder if you are going to remember that tomorrow is our wedding anniversary?” And Mr. Bellington maintained an entirely immobile countenance, trying to appear like a man who had indeed entirely forgotten his wedding anniversary. He was going to surprise Mrs. Bellington by not forgetting it.

Down in front of the apartment house Mr. Bellington’s car was waiting for him, and as he got into it he spoke to George.

“George,” he said, “on the way down stop at Wattamay’s. I want to go in there a minute.”

“Yes, Mr. Bellington,” George replied, and he did stop at Wattamay’s, that being one of the most famous jewel shops in the world. It was early, but not too early for Wattamay’s ’to be open, because, for Mr. Bellington, arriving at his office early meant arriving there at ten o’clock. He entered Wattamay’s and hesitated a moment, but no other customer was in the shop, and the floor manager spied Mr. Bellington and saw his hesitation and came to him.

“Can we serve you, sir?” he asked in the best Wattamay manner.

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Bellington. “Yes, you can. I would like to see something in wimples.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the floor manager politely. “Wimples; something in wimples,” said Mr. Bellington.


“To wear with a black dress—this new sort of black velvet,” said Mr.

Bellington. “For a lady of about forty.”

“Ah—yes,” said the floor manager, looking about rather vaguely. “What did you say it was you desired?”

“A wimple,” repeated Mr. Bellington.

“Certainly,” said the floor manager. “There are so many names for everything these days. Quite confusing. Do you happen to know what the other name for it is, sir?”

“How should I know what other name it has?” asked Mr. Bellington, getting a little red in the face.

“My wife said she wanted a wimple to wear with a black velvet dinner gown, and that’s all I know about it.”

“Ah !” exclaimed the floor manager with relief.

“That’s easily arranged

then. If you will just uSe our telephone—”

“No,” said Mr. Bellington. “It’s for a present for her. It’s a surprise for her. I can’t ask her.”

“Did she say we handled them?" asked the floor manager, but before MrBellington could answer this question Mr. Wattamay himself Mr. Henry Wattamay—entered the shop, coming in from the street, and the floor manager said, “Oh, Mr. Wattamay! One moment, please!” and Mr. Henry Wattamay paused, smiling pleas-

“Good morning,” Mr. Wattamay said pleasantly. “What is it, Tuttle?”

“This gentleman, Mr.—”

“Bellington,” said Mr. Bellington. “I have an account

“Yes, indeed,” said'Mr. Wattamay. “Mr. James Bellington, isn’t it?”

“Arthur.” said Mr. Bellington. “Arthur Bellington.” “Certainly,” responded Mr. Wattamay. “And you were going to say, Tuttle—?”

“Mr. Bellington wishes a wimple.” said Mr. Tuttle. “I

am ashamed of my ignorance, but you probably know just what he wants. I was telling Mr. Bellington that there are so many new trade names for articles—”

“Just so,” said Mr. Wattamay. “There was a lady came in here only yesterday and asked for a— now, I’ve forgotten that name. No matter; it was one of the new clip brooches she wanted. The manufacturing jewellers tag these odd names on to things to arouse interest in them. What was it you were enquiring for?”

“A wimple,” Mr. Bellington repeated again. “Tomorrow is my wife’s wedding anniversary and I overheard her say she would like to have a wimple to wear with a new black velvet dinner gown she has. I want to surprise her with it.”

“Hum!” said Mr. Wattamay, and he, too, looked rather vaguely at the many showcases in the shop. “She did not, by any chance, describe it more exactly?”

“She did not,’’ said Mr. Bellington. “She said wimple, and she probably meant wimple. She was talking to a friend of hers, and I overheard them.”

“There we have it!” exclaimed Mr. Wattamay. “Couldn’t you telephone to your wife’s friend?” “You don’t know what a wimple is?” demanded Mr. Bellington.

“I am sorry to say I do not.

So many new—”

“Where’s the telephone?” asked Mr. Bellington.

He was shown to the telephone

in Mr. Wattamay’s own private office, and while Mr. Bellington negotiated with the directory and central for Gloria Cornish’s number, Mr. Wattamay hung up his hat and seated himself at his desk.

“She’s gone out of town over the week-end,” Mr. Bellington reported. “Her maid don't know where she went.”

MR. WATTAMAY had been looking through the mail on his desk and he was now holding in his hand a letter from Mr. Peter Ockroyd offering a final figure of $225,000 for the Russkoff pearl necklace for which Wattamay’s had asked $250,000, and Mr. Wattamay’s interest in wimples and Mr. Bellington was considerably less than it had been a few minutes before. It was with difficulty that he brought his thoughts back to Mr. Bellington and the wimple.

“Miss Spence,” he said to the stenographer who was awaiting his orders, “has Mr. Charles Wattamay come in yet?”

“Yes, sir; he is in his office,” Miss Spence said.

“Ask him to come here, will you, please?” said Mr. Wattamay. “If Charles don’t know what a wimple is, Mr. Bellington, no one would know. He keeps in touch with— Charles, this is Mr. Bellington, and he is looking for a wimple.”

“A what?” asked Mr. Charles Wattamay.

“A wimple,” said Mr. Henry Wattamay.

“Never heard of it,” said Mr. Charles Wattamay. “What’s it like?” he asked Mr. Bellington.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” said Mr. Bellington. “My wife said she wanted one. My wife has a black velvet dinner gown, and she said she ought to have a wimple to go with it.” “He can’t ask her because he wants it to be a surprise,” explained Mr. Henry Wattamay.

“It’s probably pearls,” said Mr. Charles Wattamay, “if it’s to go with a black velvet gown, but I never heard anything called a wimple. Was that all she said?”

“She said,” said Mr. Bellington, “ ‘What this gown needs is a wimple.’

“Was that all she said?” asked Mr. Charles Wattamay. “She didn’t say ‘a wimple from Wattamay’s'?”

“I’ve told you what she said,” said Mr. Bellington tartly. “That’s all she did say.”

“I beg pardon, Mr. Wattamay,” Miss Spence said, “but—”

“Oh! Do you know wha,t a wimple is?” asked Mr. Henry Wattamay.

"No, Mr. Wattamay,” said Miss Spence, “but mightn’t it be something we wouldn’t have in stock? I mean, if the lady said ‘What this dress needs is a wimple,’ it might be something else. I mean, there are all these new styles of brassières and girdles. If the lady has a rather full figure—” Mr. Bellington became quite red in the face.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” he said. “We will not discuss my wife’s figure, if you please.”

“Oh, I only meant that if she said—” said Miss Spence in

great distress. “I didn’t mean—”

Continued on page 30

The W imple

Continued from page 21

“You surely know that no one in Wattamay’s would think of giving offense,” said Mr. Henry Wattamay. “The constant policy of Wattamay’s has been to be helpful and polite. Now. if you can give us time, Mr. Bellington, we will undertake to find a wimple for you, and if it is not an article of jewellery we will let you know.”

“Never mind,” said Mr. Bellington. “I haven’t got time. I’ve got to get it this morning.”

“If there was anything else you cared to look at,” said Mr. Tuttle, who had been waiting in the doorway, “I would be glad to give it my personal attention.”

“Won’t bother you,” said Mr. Bellington, and he went out of the office and out of the

Mr. Henry Wattamay handed Mr. Charles Wattamay the letter from Mr. Peter Ockroyd, and in a minute they had quite forgotten wimples.

OUT on the avenue Mr. Bellington glanced at his watch. He had already spent too much time on wimples. He had a luncheon engagement at the country club with Norbert Wallingstone, buyer of ringbolts for the Intercontinental Machine Company, and a date to play golf with him after the lunch, and the time between ten and half past eleven was brief for looking over his mail for the day. He walked out to his car and turned to look up and down the avenue, seeking a high-class shop that dealt in brassières and girdles and similar aids to the proper fitting of black velvet dinner gowns, and his eye alighted on one, the shop of Madame La Tulipe, a few doors below Wattamay’s.

“Wait here, George,” Mr. Bellington said, and he went into the shop of Madame La

In the shop of Madame La Tulipe Mr. Bellington felt completely out of place. It

was a recherché shop, narrow but elegant, and simply infested by beautiful young salesladies who were strong for vicious looking lipstick and eyebrow paint. The queen of these houris glided toward Mr. Bellington and cast a supercilious glance upon his face. She seemed to say, “If I am not amused I will go to sleep,” but what she actually said was “May I do for you, sir?” in a voice like perfumed ointment.

“Do you have wimples?” asked Mr. Bellington.

“Please?” purred the peri.

“Wimples," said Mr. Bellington. “Do you sell wimples?”

“Madame La Tulipe!” called the dear thing, half turning her head.

“Yes?” asked Madame La Tulipe, who was and looked like Margaret Casey. She came from a curtained booth and approached Mr. Bellington.

“The gentleman desires—what was it you desired?”

“I want a wimple, or a pair of them, or however they come,” said Mr. Bellington. “I asked whether you sold them.”

“A what?” asked Madame La Tulipe.

“A wimple,” said Mr. Bellington.

“Wimple?” repeated Madame La Tulipe. “What’s a wimple?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Bellington. "I’m asking you. If you don’t know, there’s no use wasting time. Don’t you know what a wimple is?”

“You don’t mean a girdle, do you?” asked Madame La Tulipe.

“I don’t know what I mean,” said Mr. Bellington. “How do 1 know what the thing is? My wife wants a wimple and

that’s all I know about it. If you don’t know what a wimple is, say so.”

“I don’t think we have anything like that,” said Madame La Tulipe, making allowance for the feelings of a man in a brassière shop. "If it is anything in the

“You don’t know what a wimple is?” demanded Mr. Bellington.

“But even if it is someone’s trade name


Mr. Bellington bolted out of the shop. He bolted across the walk. He bolted into his car as soon as George could open the

“The office?” George asked.

“Yes. No,” said Mr. Bellington. “Templeham’s, George.”

“Yes, sir,” George answered.

TEMPLEHAM'S is, in the words of its radio broadcaster, “one of America’s great stores,” and in this statement there is no exaggeration. To call Templeham’s a great store is to slander it. Templeham’s is a stupendous store; its clerks are ari army; it gulps whole trainloads of products, mountain ranges of merchandise, and will sell you a collar button. If you go into Templeham’s some day and say to the floorman “Where can I get a pyx?” he will not be puzzled. He will say “Second floor, third aisle left; kindly take the escalator.” Of course, you may not find a pyx in the third aisle of the second floor, because religious goods may have been moved to the sixth aisle, seventh floor, new building, but the floorman knows that Templeham’s sells pyxes.

There are so many things sold at Temple-

ham’s that it is impossible for a floorman to keep quite current with their locations. The floormen at Templeham’s do the best they can, but the daily “List of Changes” is so long that it requires two days for anyone to read through it. Thus every floorman at Templeham’s gets one day farther behind in learning the changes each day he remains a floorman at Templeham’s. When he is two years behind in his knowledge of where the various departments are located, he is pensioned and sent to the Templeham Employees’ Home at Carterville, New Jersey.

One August day, for example, a colored man entered Templeham’s and asked the first floorman he saw, this question, “Have you got sassy bark here?” The floorman hardly even looked at him. “For the tree itself, the Nursery Department, sixth floor rear; for the bark, Drug Department, third floor, second aisle to the right. Please take the escalator.” That is how good the floormen are at Templeham’s, and the best of the lot is undoubtedly Orlando Pratt.

When Mr. Bellington bolted into Templeham’s—he was getting the bolting habit— Mr. Pratt was standing just inside the main entrance and saying to a middle-aged woman “Eighth floor rear, south side of building. Please take the escalator,” and Mr. Bellington almost pushed the middle-aged woman on her way toward escalator number eight.

“I want a wimple,” said Mr. Bellington.

“What?” asked Mr. Pratt.

“I want to see a wimple,” said Mr. Bellington.

“Oh,” said Mr. Pratt, “you mean Mr. Gimpel. Ninth floor rear, new building Advertising Department, third desk to left. Please take the escalator. If Mr. Gimpel is out, ask for Mr. Stortz.”

“No; I don’t want to see—” said Mr. Bellington.

“Oh,” said Mr. Pratt again. "You said

A. Gimpel, you know. You mean Mr. J. Gimpel, Claims Department, ninth floor, new building, eighth desk, second row to the right. If he is out, ask for Mr. Gullup. Please take the escalator.”

“No; can’t you listen to me a minute?” demanded Mr. Bellington with irritation. “I don’t want to see any Gimple or Pimple or anybody else. I want a wimple. I want to buy a wimple. Is that plain enough?” “Wimple?” queried Mr. Pratt. “How do you spell it?”

“I don’t spell it,” said Mr. Bellington, red in the face once more—he was getting that habit, too. “I don’t know how you spell it. W, I suppose, and imple. It may be wimpell for all I know.”

“It might begin with G,” said Mr. Pratt, who had taken a book from his pocket and hurriedly run through the W pages. “But it don’t,” he added when he had looked in vain for “gwimple.” “Or O—ouimple, for instance. No; that’s not the way to spell it. There are some new fruits in the Fruit and Vegetable Section of the Grocery Department that haven’t been reported down to us yet. Was it advertised in the morning papers?”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Mr. Bellington. “My wife has a dress—”

“Dress Department, second floor—” “Now, wait a minute, can’t you?” cried Mr. Bellington. "My wife has a black velvet dinner gown, and last night she said ‘What this dress needs is a wimple.’ Is that plain enough? That wouldn’t be a fruit, would it? Or a vegetable?”

“Wimple—hum!” said Mr. Pratt, looking at the ceiling. “Wimple. To go with a dress. Wimple. You might try the Dress Appurtenances Department, third floor. You know, occasionally—not often, but occasionally—these things are not reported to us. Wimple. Black velvet, you said?” “That's what I said.”

"You might try the Dress Goods Department, second floor front, for velvets. If it’s a black velvet dress, the manager of the Velvet Section might know what is being worn with black velvet dresses. Second floor front. Please take the escalator.”

Mr. Bellington took the elevator and found the Velvet Section of the Dress Goods Department. He asked a clerk his question and the clerk called Mr. McGoffy, and Mr. McGoffy looked at the ceiling and said “Wimple? Wimple? Wimple?” as if he were some strange variety of water bird.

“No,” he said, “I don’t recall anyone having spoken of wimples. No one has ever asked me about wimples before.”

NO ONE ever pays much attention to a man who asks for things in the women’s departments of a department store and doesn’t seem to know just what he wants, and Mr. McGoffy turned his back on Mr. Bellington. Mr. Bellington saw the prominent signs "Please use the Escalators” and he used one—one that took him downward. It landed him face to face with another sign that said “Special on Dictionaries, 98 cts.” He was now in the Book Department. He reached out his hand and took one of the dictionaries.

"Would you like one of the dictionaries?” a sweet voice at his shoulder asked.

,“I want to look up a word,” Mr. Bellington said. “I’ve been trying to buy something here and nobody seems to know what

“Can I help you?” asked the pleasant young lady, taking one of t{ie dictionaries in her hand.

“I’d better look it up myself,” said Mr. Bellington, for he was beginning to be afraid that a wimple might be something not to say anything too much about in the presence of nice young ladies. He opened the dictionary and found “wimple” in it. “Huh!” he exclaimed. “That’s queer; I don’t see what she would want that for.” “May I see?” asked the sweet young girl. “Wimple,” said Mr. Bellington. “It says here it is a covering for the neck, chin and sides of the face, made of silk, linen, etcetera, now worn only by nuns. I don’t see what my wife would want one of those things for.”

"Is she going to a masquerade?” asked the girl clerk.

“No,” said Mr. Bellington. “She’s got a dress—a black velvet dinner gown—and she said she ought to have a wimple for it. It’s her wedding anniversary tomorrow, so I thought I’d get her a wimple if that was what she wanted.”

“Did she tell you she wanted one?” the girl asked.

“I’ll tell you how it was,” said Mr. Bellington, for the girl was a very pretty girl and seemed greatly interested in his problem. “I was in the next room and she was trying on this dress—this black velvet dinner gown—and she said to her friend— this Miss Cornish who is her friend-#-‘What this dress needs is a wimple.’ What has this thing the nuns wear got to do with a black velvet dinner gown?”

"We might look in a larger dictionary,” said Mr. Bellington’s fair young helper. “Sometimes a word has two or three mean’ ings and these cheap dictionaries don’t give them all. Now, this dictionary—”

It was a huge book, and only one of ten volumes, and the pretty maiden lifted it to a table and turned the pages.

“Here it is,” she exclaimed. “Here’s a picture of it. ‘Wimple, from a statue of Jeanne d’Evreux, Queen of France, probably about 1327.’ It wouldn’t be ‘wimble’ would it? No; that’s a gimlet. Wimple—” She was reading the text and Mr. Bellington leaned beside her. There were examples of the use of the word:

“Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was.”


“Whan she saugh hem com, she roos a-geins hem as she that was curteys and well lerned, and voyded her wymple.”—Merlin.

“It was a sort of veil,” said Mr. Bellington’s fair helper. “It— Was your wife’s dinner gown cut rather low in the neck?”

“It certainly is,” said Mr. Bellington emphatically.

“Well, there, you see!” exclaimed the pretty young clerk. “She just meant—well, that it was quite low in the neck. I don’t think she really meant—”

“What’s that bell?” asked Mr. Bellington, for a gong was clanging loudly somewhere in Templeham’s.

“It’s the fifteen-minute bell,” said the pretty girl. “It means that the store is going to close in fifteen minutes. We close at noon, you know.”

“Great Scott!” cried Mr. Bellington. “Is it fifteen minutes to twelve?” and he looked at his watch. “My word, I’ve got to be—” The lovely young creature of the Book Department never did hear the end of that sentence. Mr. Bellington was rushing down the aisle, bumping people right and left. He almost ran out to his car.

“George,” he said, “get me to the country club the quickest way you ever got there. Wallingstone is going to be mad as hops if I keep him waiting. Speed it a little, George.” “Yes, sir,” George said, and he got Mr. Bellington to the country club by twenty minutes after twelve; which was not so bad.

About half past five Mr. Bellington, having been beaten five down and four to play by Mr. Wallingstone, got into his car. All the stores in New York would be closed, and most of them had closed at noon. He leaned forward and spoke to George.

“George,” he said, “you know that place on Northern Boulevard where they sell dogs —those little peke dogs? Drive by there and stop, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” said George, and when Mr. Bellington entered his Park Avenue apartment he had a basket in his hand, and in the basket was a cocoa-colored peke of tender years.

“You darling!” cried Mrs. Bellington to the peke, and then: “You darling, you did remember what day tomorrow is, didn’t you? And just what I wanted. What’s his name?”

“His name,” said Mr. Bellington, who was feeling pretty well for a man of his years, “is Ping Tow, but,” he added, “I’m going to call him Wimple.”

The End