Little Miss Grouch | Page 7

a minute!" protested he, addressing whatever Powers might be within hearing. "Stop the swing. I want to get out!"
He lifted his head and the wall leaned over and bumped it back upon the pillow. Incidentally it bumped him awake.
"Must be morning," he yawned. A pocket-knife and two keys rolled off the stand almost into the yawn. "Some weather," deduced the Tyro. "Now, if I'm ever going to be seasick I suppose this is the time to begin." He gave the matter one minute's fair and honorable consideration. "I think I'll be breakfasting," he decided, and dismissed it.
Having satisfied an admirable appetite in an extensive area of solitude, he weaved and wobbled up the broad stairs and emerged into the open, where he stood looking out upon a sea of flecked green and a sky of mottled gray. Alderson bore down upon him, triangulating the deck like a surveyor.
"Trying out my sea-legs," he explained. "How does this strike you as an anti-breakfast roll?"
"Hasn't struck me that way at all," said the Tyro. "I feel fine."
"Welcome to the Society of Seaworthy Salts! These are the times that try men's stomachs, if not their souls. Come along."
The pair marched back and forth past a row of sparsely inhabited deck-chairs, meeting in their promenade a sprinkling of the hardier spirits of the ship community.
"Have you seen Miss Melancholia this morning?" asked Alderson.
"No, thank Heaven! I didn't dare go in to breakfast till I'd peeked around the corner to make sure she wasn't there."
"Wait. She'll cross your bows early and often."
"Don't! You make me nervous. What a beast she must think me!"
"Here comes a girl now," said his friend maliciously. "Prepare to emulate the startled fawn."
The Tyro turned hastily. "Oh, that's all right," he said, reassured. "She's wholly surrounded by a masculine bodyguard. No fear of its being Little Miss Grouch."
A sudden roll of the ship opened up the phalanx, and there stood, poised, a Wondrous Vision; a spectacle of delight for gods and men, and particularly for the Tyro, who then and there forgot Little Miss Grouch, forgot Alderson, forgot his family, his home, his altars and his fires, and particularly his manners, and, staring until his eyes protruded, offered up an audible and fervent prayer to Neptune that the Clan Macgregor might break down in mid-ocean and not get to port for six months.
"Hello!" said Alderson. "Why this sudden passion for a life on the ocean wave?"
"Did you see her?"
"See whom? Oh!" he added, in enlightenment, as the escort surged past them. "That's it, is it, my impressionable young friend? Well, if you're planning to enter those lists you won't be without competition."
The Tyro closed his eyes to recall that flashing vision of youth and loveliness. He saw again the deliciously modeled face tinted to warmest pink, a figure blent of curves and gracious contours, a mouth of delicate mirth, and eyes, wide, eager, soft, and slanted quaintly at an angle to madden the heart of man.
"Is there such an angel as the Angel of Laughter?" asked the Tyro.
"Not in any hierarchy that I know," replied Alderson.
"Then there ought to be. Do you know her?"
"Who? The Angel of--"
"Don't guy me, Dr. Alderson. This is serious."
"Oh, these sudden seizures are seldom fatal."
"Do you know her?" persisted the Tyro.
"No."
The Tyro sighed. Meantime there progressed the ceremony of enthroning the queen in one of the most desirable chairs on the deck, while the bodyguard fussed eagerly about, tucking in rugs, handing out candy, flowers, and magazines, and generally making monkeys of itself. (I quote the Tyro's regrettable characterization of these acts of simple courtesy.)
"But I know some of her admirers," continued the other. "The lop-eared youth on the right is young Sperry, son of the famous millionaire philanthropist and tax-dodger, Diedrick Sperry. He'll be worth ten millions one of these days."
"Slug!" said the Tyro viciously.
"That huge youngster at her feet is Journay, guard on last year's Princeton team. He's another gilded youth."
"Unfledged cub," growled the Tyro.
"Very nice boy, on the contrary. The bristly-haired specimen who is ostentatiously making a sketch of her is Castleton Flaunt, the illustrator."
"Poseur!"
"The languid, brown man with the mustache is Lord Guenn, the polo-player."
"Cheap sport!"
"You don't seem favorably impressed with the lady's friends."
"Hang her friends! I want to know who she is."
"That also might be done. Do you see the tall man coming down the deck?"
"The old farmer with the wispy hair?"
"Precisely. That 'farmer' is the ablest honest lawyer in New York. Also, he knows everybody. Oh, Judge Enderby," he hailed.
"Howdy, Alderson," responded the iron-gray one. "Glad to see you. Now we shall have some whist."
"Good! Judge, do you know the pretty girl over yonder, in that chair?"
The judge put up an eyeglass. "Yes," he said.
"Tell my young friend here who she is, will you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
A cavernous chuckle issued from between the