“Well, they sure do. . . . Say, you can have that one back you loaned me.”
“Have you used it on anybody?” Jenny asked with interest.
“I tried it on that redheaded Gordon.”
“That drownded man? What’d he say?”
“He beat me.” The niece rubbed herself with a tanned retrospective hand. “He just beat hell out of me,” she said.
“Gee,” said Jenny.
ten o’clock
Fairchild gathered his watch, nourished it, and brought it on deck again. The ladies hailed its appearance with doubtful pleasure. Mr. Talliaferro and Jenny were dancing, and the niece and Pete with his damaged hat, were performing together with a skilful and sexless abandon that was almost professional, while the rest of the party watched them.
“Whee,” Fairchild squealed, watching the niece and Pete with growing childish admiration. At the moment they faced each other at a short distance, their bodies rigid as far as the waist. But below this they were as amazing jointless toys, and their legs seemed to fly in every direction at once until their knees seemed to touch the floor. Then they caught hands and whirled sharply together, without a break in that dizzy staccato of heels. “Say, Major, look there! Look there, Julius! Come on, I believe I can do that.”
He led his men to the assault. The victrola ran down at the moment; he directed the Semitic man to attend to it, and went at once to where Pete and the niece stood. “Say, you folks are regular professionals. Pete, let me have her this time, will you? I want her to show me how you do that. Will you show me? Pete won’t mind.”
“All right,” the niece agreed, “I’ll show you. I owe you something for that yarn at dinner to-night.” She put her hand
