had scared that alligator. But that was the last they ever saw of Claude.
“Pretty soon after that, though, there was a shark scare at the bathing beaches along the Gulf coast. It seemed to be a lone shark that kept annoying women bathers, especially blondes; and they knew it was Claude Jackson. He was always hell after blondes.”
Fairchild ceased. The niece squealed and jumped up and came to him, patting his back. Jenny’s round ineffable eyes were upon him, utterly without thought. The Semitic man was slumped in his chair: he may have slept.
Major Ayers stared at Fairchild a long time. At last he said: “But why does the alligator one wear congress boots?”
Fairchild mused a moment. Then he said dramatically: “He’s got webbed feet.”
“Yes,” Major Ayers agreed. He mused in turn. “But this chap that got rich—” The niece squealed again. She sat beside Fairchild and regarded him with admiration.
“Go on, go on,” she said, “about the one that stole the money, you know.”
Fairchild looked at her kindly. Into the silence there came a thin saccharine strain. “There’s the victrola,” he said. “Let’s go up and start a dance.”
“The one who stole the money,” she insisted. “Please.” She put her hand on his shoulder.
“Some other time,” he promised, rising. “Let’s go up and dance now.” The Semitic man yet slumped in his chair, and Fairchild shook him. “Wake up, Julius. I’m safe now.”
The Semitic man opened his eyes and Major Ayers said: “How much did they gain with their fish ranching?”
“Not as much as they would have with a patent nicetasting laxative. All Americans don’t eat fish, you know. Come
