“What do you do in New Orleans, Pete?” Miss Jameson asked intensely.
“One thing and another,” Pete answered cautiously. “I’m in business with my brother,” he added.
“You have lots of friends, I imagine? Girls would all like to dance with you. You are one of the best dancers I ever saw—almost a professional. I like dancing.”
“Yeh,” Pete agreed. He was restive. “I guess—”
“I wonder if you and I couldn’t get together some evening and dance again? I don’t go to night clubs much, because none of the men I know dance very well. But I’d enjoy it, with you.”
“I guess so,” Pete answered. “Well, I—”
“I’ll give you my phone number and address, and you call me soon, will you? You might come out to dinner, and we'll go out afterward, you know.”
“Sure,” Pete answered uncomfortably. He removed his hat and examined the crown. Then he slanted it once more across his dark reckless head. Miss Jameson said:
“Do you ever make dates ahead of time, Pete?”
“Naw,” he answered quickly. “I wouldn’t have a date over a day old. I just call ’em up and take ’em out and bring ’em back in time to go to work next day. I wouldn’t have one I had to wait until to-morrow on.”
“Neither do I. So I tell you what: let’s break the rule one time, and make a date for the first night we are ashore—what do you say? You come out to dinner at my house, and we'll go out later to dance. I’ve got a car.”
“I— Well, you see—”
“We'll just do that,” Miss Jameson continued remorselessly. “We won’t forget that; it’s a promise, isn’t it?”
Pete rose. “I guess we—I guess I better not promise. Something might turn up so I—we couldn’t make it. I guess . . .”
