Anesta rose, flying to him. "Now, Tommy," she said, patting his cheek, "that isn't nice."
"Let the bleddy bastard go to—"
But apparently an omnipotent being had invaded the porch, and a deep-throated voice barked sweetly down it, "Anesta, darling, take Baldy inside, and come here!"
"But, mother—"
"Do as you are told, darling, and don't waste any more time."
"No, Gawd blarst yo'—nobody will slip off these pants of mine. Lemme go!"
"Be a gentleman, sweet, and behave."
"What a hell of a ruction it are, eh?"
"Help me wit' 'im, Hyacinth—"
Ungallantly yielding, he permitted the girl to force him along on her arm. He stepped in the crown of Mr. Thingamerry's hat. Only yesterday he had put on a gleaming white suit. Done by the Occupation, the starch on the edges of it made it dagger sharp. Now it was a sight; ugly drink stains darkened it. Booze, perspiration, tobacco weeds moistened it. His shirt, once stiff, was black and wrinkled. His tie, his collar, and trousers awry. His fire-red hair was wet and bushy and rumpled. Black curses fell from his mouth. But six months in the tropics and the nights and the girls at the Palm Porch had overpowered him. Held him tight. Sent from Liverpool to the British Consulate at Colon, he had fallen for the languor of the seacoast, he had been seized by the magic glow of the Palm Porch.