ladies, and only in the privacy of my cabin could I turn around without bumping into him. I liked him and carbolic the same way and practically told him so, but thinly veiled insults rolled off the Grenadier like raindrops off oil. Really, the more I saw of the world's middleweight champion the more I hoped Fighting Paddy Leary would assassinate him, and I guess that was the only thing Hazel and I ever agreed on.
One day on deck when the modest Grenadier had told me for the twentieth time with reference to Fighting Paddy that he intended to "bash the blighter's fyce in!" I interrupted with a yawn. "You won't have a chance to bash anybody's fyce in, old dear, after Fighting Paddy Leary hits you—you'll be too busy!"
"Busy?" says the Grenadier. "Busy at what, may I arsk?"
"Busy picking splinters out of your shoulder blades!" I says sweetly.
He was fit to be tied and gave me a glare that sunburnt my nose—but that didn't stop his chasing me.
Delancey Gregory, the movie star, also favored me with his kind attention, and I must say that in his case I didn't seek police protection. The tall and distinguished looking Delancey was as handsome as they come in his sex, and while not exactly as brilliant a conversationalist as Will Rogers or Georgie B. Shaw, he at least knew what it was all about, was an easy
