“Is you ready to retiah, boss?” he asked.
A quarter of an hour later Taylor was alone in his berth, gazing at his reflection in the glass while he undressed.
“You wouldn’t have the nerve to think she is interested in you, would you—you homely son-of-a-gun?” he queried of his reflection. “Why, no, she ain’t, of course,” he added; “no woman could be interested in you. You’ve been all day looking like a half-baked dude—and no woman is interested in dudes!”
Carefully removing the contents of the several pockets of the despised wearing apparel in which he had suffered for many days, he got into his nightclothes and rang for the porter. When the latter appeared with his huge grin, Taylor gave him the offensive clothing, bundled together to form a large ball.
“George,” he said seriously, almost solemnly, “I’m tired of being a dude. Some day I may decide to be a dude; but not now. Take these duds and save them until I ask for them. If you offer them to me before I ask for them, I’ll perforate you sure as hell!”
He produced a big Colt pistol from somewhere, and as the weapon glinted in the light the porter’s eyes bulged and he backed away, gingerly holding the bundle of clothing.
“Yassir, boss—yassir! I shuah won’t mention it till you does, boss!”
When the porter had gone, Taylor grinned into the glass.
“I sure have felt just what I looked,” he said.
Then he got into his berth and dreamed all night of a girl whose mocking eyes seemed to say: