“And then, right behind the alligator he saw Claude. Claude’s eyes had kind of shifted around to the side of his head and his mouth had spread back a good way, and his teeth had got longer. And then old man Jackson knew what 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 nice tasting laxative. All Americans don’t eat fish, you know. Come on, let’s go up and hold that dance they’ve been worrying us about every night.”
NINE O’CLOCK
“Say,” the niece said as she and Jenny mounted to the deck, “remember that thing we traded for the other night, the one you let me use for the one I let you use?”
“I guess so,” Jenny answered. “I remember trading.”
“Have you used it yet?”
“I never can think of it,” Jenny confessed. “I never can remember what it was you told me. . Besides, I’ve got another one now.”
“You have? Who told it to you?”
“The pop eyed man. That Englishman.”
“Major Ayers?”
“Uhuh. Last night we was talking and he kept on saying for us to go to Mandeville today. He kept on saying it. And so this morning he acted like he thought I meant we was going. He acted like he was mad.”
“What was it he said?” Jenny told her — a mixture of pidgin English and Hindustani that Major Ayers must have picked up along the Singapore water front, or mayhap at some devious and doubtful place in the Straits, but after Jenny had repeated it, it didn’t sound like anything at all.
“What?” the niece asked. Jenny said it again.
“It don’t sound like anything, to me,” the niece said. “Is that the way he said it?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Jenny replied.
The niece said curiously, “Men sure do swear at you a lot. They’re always cursing you. What do you do to them, anyway?”
“I don’t do anything to them,” Jenny answered. “I’m just talking to them.”
“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 skillful 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 tonight.” She put her hand on Pete’s arm. “Don’t go off; Pete. I’ll show him and then he can practice on the others. Don’t you go off; you are all right. You might take Jenny for a while. She must be tired: he’s been leaning on her for a half an hour. Come on, Dawson. Watch me now.” She had no bones at all.
Major Ayers and the Semitic man had partners, though more sedately. Major Ayers galloped around in a heavy dragoon ish manner: when that record was over Miss Jameson was panting. She offered to sit out the next one, but Fairchild overruled her. He believed he had the knack of it. “We’ll put the old girl’s dance over in style,” he told them.
Major Ayers, inflamed by Fairchild’s example, offered for the niece himself. Mr. Talliaferro, reft of Jenny, acquired Mrs. Wiseman; the Semitic man was cajoling the hostess. “We’ll put her dance over for her,” Fairchild chanted. They were off.
Gordon had come up from somewhere and he stood in shadow, watching. “Come on, Gordon,” Fairchild shouted to him. “Grab one!” When the music ceased Gordon cut in on Major Ayers. The niece looked up in surprise, and Major Ayers departed in Jenny’s direction.
“I didn’t know you danced,” she said.
“Why not?” Gordon asked.
“You just don’t look like you did. And you told Aunt Pat you couldn’t dance.”
“I can’t,” he answered, staring down at her. “Bitter,” he said slowly. “That’s what you are. New. Like bark when the sap is rising.”
“Will you give it to me?” He was silent. She couldn’t see his face distinctly: only the bearded shape of his tall head. “Why won’t you give it to me?” Still no answer, and his head was ugly as bronze against the sky. Fairchild started the Victrola again: a saxophone was a wailing obscenity, and she raised her arms. “Come on.”
* * *
When that one was finished Fairchild’s watch rushed below again, and presently Mr. Talliaferro saw his chance and followed surreptitiously. Fairchild and Major Ayers were ecstatically voluble: the small room fairly moiled with sound. Then they rushed back on deck.
“Watch your step, Talliaferro,” Fairchild cautioned him as they ascended. “She’s got her eye on you. Have you danced with her yet?” Mr. Talliaferro had not. “Better kind of breathe away from her when you do.”