"Pshaw! somebody has been here ahead of us! Look at those traps on the bank there."
Dunstan, his face unlike its usual merry self, a somewhat sodden look to his faun eyes, looked about for the advance pearl hunters. Jumping out, he kicked the empty mussel shells about, he reached forward and inspected the picnic trappings and thermos bottles. "Sandwiches!" he called out to the others. "They haven't had supper, whoever they are; look, there's a pile of driftwood for their fire," then with a whistle, "Holy Cat—I say, Gert, here's my sister's thermos bottle; look at the monogram, S. B. And that's Minga's plaid steamer rug. I know, because I got her a pillow to match. Say, for heaven's sake! Let's get out of here; we don't want to piggy-mix in their party. Pshaw! they've beat us to it, pearls and all!"
Gertrude, lying back in the canoe, smoking, raised her head. There was a gold serpent bracelet around one of her brown arms, and around the waist of her thin green jersey another huge gold serpent twined. She made a strange exotic picture in the leafy dimness of the late afternoon. Her dark hair, brilliant cheeks and lips suggested Eastern things; one instinctively put her against some background of pyramids and sphinxes. When she spoke, however, the illusion vanished; Gertrude employed the "chewing gum" accent in all its undiscipline of inflections and jawful mouthings. She had only to open her mouth and one knew that however subtle and old the soul that lay within her, the brain that controlled that soul had only one idea, to get things, and to get them quickly.
"Why get out?" she asked indolently. "I thought we were booked till midnight." Gertrude had prepared her golden snakes for a forest moonlight.
"Well, if you think it's fair to Cinny." At this the girl in the second boat sat up staring about her. Her fair hair was tousled, her eyes were dull, and her mouth hung loosely.
"What's the matter with Cinny?" she demanded. "I'm all right—I'm a li'l' slipp—sleepy, that's all. Dunce, who's got the chawclets? I want some more." With a burst of silly laughter the girl lay down again, her eyelids drooping heavily, the young, full lips pushed out in a coarse way, hateful to see.
The other youth brought his boat with this burden alongside the bank where the first campers had piled their belongings. "Wouldn't it be more fun to hang around?" this youth asked. "The fair lady can sleep there and we can just say she's tired out, sunburn and all—y' know. Whassay we sort of stay and watch the fun?" this fellow asked. The speaker, resplendent in a white college sweater, with its ostentatious chest letter, had a curious old man's look of importance and prestige. On his hands were two extremely ornate rings of cabalistic designs drawn by himself. His tie was prodded with a gold nugget, his wrist-watch was a sort of disease of jewels, he had in every motion he made the self-conscious assurance of the fop, the sort of man who is trained in boyhood by silly women to "appear well" in hotels. "I don't care when I meet my fiancée," he winked at Gertrude.
Tawny Troop, Minga's betrothed, well up in the essential attitudes of good sportsmanship, yet now by his very way of handling his paddle, showed the Miss Nancy, the jeunesse dorée spirit that one felt would take him a certain successful distance and then with some untimely revelation utterly betray him.
"I think we should remain here." Tawny spoke as one accustomed to being obeyed; his voice was soft and his inflection pampered, but his tones had all the assurance that is given by a large bank account.
Dunce looked at the man irritably. "All right," he growled, "remain then." Dunstan was thinking of the general mess of things should Minga return. Instinctively downright himself, the lad could not bear the suggestion of intrigue that he knew Gertrude gloried in. There was something so worried and resentful in the deep brown eyes that the girl still in the boat beckoned to him. Gertrude reached up a long, well-shaped arm, sleeve rolled to the elbow. She plucked at Dunstan, trying to pull him down to her. "Poor little boy, come and be petted," she laughed. It was the laugh of an old soul in a young body. All the manner and experience of the woman of the low lights and intimate perfumes was in Gertrude's gesture. For answer the boy, standing on shore, kicked the bow of the boat away from him; he sent it slanting into the center of the "race," where it wobbled about; the girl, eyebrows raised, took up the paddle and lazily shoved it back.