But they were not laughing with this man--they were
laughing at him. To them a man who talked after this fashion was
either raving drunk or raving crazy.
"You are Yale men, I presume," said Peter, finishing his highball and
preparing another.
They laughed again.
"Na-ah."
"So? I thought perhaps you might be members of that lowly section of
the university known as the Sheffield Scientific School."
"Na-ah."
"Hm. Well, that's too bad. No doubt you are Harvard men, anxious to
preserve your incognito in this--this paradise of violet blue, as the
newspapers say."
"Na-ah," said Key scornfully, "we was just waitin' for somebody."
"Ah," exclaimed Peter, rising and filling their glasses, "very
interestin'. Had a date with a scrublady, eh?"
They both denied this indignantly.
"It's all right," Peter reassured them, "don't apologize. A
scrublady's as good as any lady in the world."
Kipling says 'Any lady and Judy O'Grady under the skin.'"
"Sure," said Key, winking broadly at Rose.
"My case, for instance," continued Peter, finishing his glass. "I got
a girl up here that's spoiled. Spoildest darn girl I ever saw. Refused
to kiss me; no reason whatsoever. Led me on deliberately to think sure
I want to kiss you and then plunk! Threw me over! What's the younger
generation comin' to?"
"Say tha's hard luck," said Key--"that's awful hard luck."
"Oh, boy!" said Rose.
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