"Sh, be quiet, son, come," and Miss Buckner led him to a chair among a group of men.
Constantly, Miss Buckner's hand kept fluttering to the diamond-headed pin stuck in her bosom.
Chaos prevailed, but Miss Buckner was quite sober. All about there were broken vases, overturned flower-pots, flowers, women's shoes. All the men were prostrate, the women exultant.
As midnight approached, the doorbell suddenly rang. And Miss Buckner rose, cautioning serenity. "All right, boys, let's have less noise—the captain's comin'."
In Anesta's lap there was an eruption, a young Vice-Consul staggered up—shaking her off, ready to face the coming of the visitor.
"Sit down, Baldy," she implored, "come back here to me—"
"Skipper, eh? Who is he? Wha' ya hell tub is he on?" He was tall and his body rocked menacingly.
"Put that goddam lime juicer to bed, somebody, will ya?"
"Yo' gawd dam American—why—"