From the tip of his shining shoes to the top of his pale gray hat, Ravenal was sartorial perfection, nothing less. The boots were hand-made, slim, aristocratic. The cloth of his clothes was patently out of England, and tailored for no casual purchaser, but for Ravenal’s figure alone. The trousers tapered elegantly to the instep. The collar was moulded expertly so that it hugged the neck. The linen was of the finest and whitest, and cunning needlecraft had gone into the embroidering of the austere monogram that almost escaped showing in one corner of the handkerchief that peeped above his left breast pocket. The malacca stick seemed to take on a new lustre and richness now that it found itself once more in fitting company. With the earnings of his first two weeks on the Cotton Blossom enclosed as evidence of good faith, and future payment assured, Gaylord Ravenal had sent by mail from the Louisiana bayous to Plumbridge, the only English tailor in New Orleans, the order which had resulted in his present splendour.
He now paused a moment to relieve himself of that which had long annoyed him in the beady-eyed one. “Listen to me, Flat Foot. The Cotton Blossom dropped anchor at seven o’clock this morning at the New Orleans dock. I came ashore at nine. It is now three. I am free to stay on shore or not, as I like, until nine to-morrow morning. Until then, if I hear any more of your offensive conversation, I shall have to punish you.”
Flat Foot, thus objurgated, stared at Ravenal with an expression in which amazement and admiration fought for supremacy. “By God, Ravenal, with any luck at all, that gall of yours ought to get you a million some day.”
“I wouldn’t be bothered with any sum so vulgar.” From an inside pocket he drew a perfecto, long, dark, sappy. “Have a smoke.” He drew out another. “And give this to Vallon when you go back to report. Tell him I wanted him to know the flavour of a decent cigar for once in his life.”
As he crossed the gangplank he encountered Mrs. Hawks and Frank, the lumbering heavy, evidently shore-bound together. He stepped aside with a courtliness that the Ravenals of Tennessee could not have excelled in the days of swords, satins, and periwigs.
Mrs. Hawks was, after all, a woman; and no woman could look unmoved upon the figure of cool elegance that now stood before her. “Sakes alive!” she said, inadequately. Frank, whose costumes, ashore or afloat, always were négligée to the point of causing the beholder some actual nervousness, attempted to sneer without the aid of make-up and made a failure of it.
Ravenal now addressed Mrs. Hawks. “You are not staying long ashore, I hope?”
“And why not?” inquired Mrs. Hawks, with her usual delicacy.
“I had hoped that perhaps you and Captain Hawks and Miss Magnolia might do me the honour of dining with me ashore and going to the theatre afterward. I know a little restaurant where——”
“Likely,” retorted Parthy, by way of polite refusal; and moved majestically down the gangplank, followed by the gratified heavy.