“Bite him!” Vesta called back, loudly enough for half the room to hear. “Bite him good and hard, on the end of the tail. If you can’t catch the tail, bite his ear. Bite it good.”
“Bite him? Why, I couldn’t—not possibly!”
“Well, then give him the knee, or clout him a good, solid tunk on the nose. Or better yet; tell him you won’t dance with him any more—he’ll be good.”
“Now you tell us what to do about tail-ticklers,” Cloud said then. “S’pose I’d take a good bite at your ear?”
“I’d bite you right back,” said Vesta, gleefully, “and I bet you’d taste just as nice as you smell.”
The dance went on, and Cloud finally, by the aid of both Vesta and Zamke, did finally manage to get one dance with Joan. And, as he had known he would, he enjoyed it immensely. So did she.
“Having fun, chum? I never saw you looking so starry-eyed before.”
“Oh, brother!” she breathed. “To say that I was never the belle of any ball in my schooldays is the understatement of the century, but here . . . can you imagine it, Storm, me actually outshining Barbara Benton and Helen Worthington both at once?”
“Sure I can. I told you. . . .”
“Of course it’s probably because their own women are so big that I’m a sort of curiosity,” she rushed on, “but whatever the reason, this dance is going down in my memory book in great big letters in the reddest ink I can find!”