"Certainly, sir!" Jenkins' mouth closed, traplike.
But all in vain my early rise the next morning, my careful toilet and my dash in a taxi to a florist and then to Tiffany's for a ring. At the pier I dodged about in the crowd, the boy trailing behind me with the big purple box, but not a devilish thing could I see of Frances. By Jove, I almost broke my monocle straining! At last I was sure she must be left, for the last passengers were passing over the gang-plank.
"Hello, Dicky!"
The voice, coarse and hearty, came from an athletic young man in a hurrah suit. On his head, perched jauntily above a mass of yellow hair, was a straw hat with a crimson band.
I stared at him through my glass, but it was not any one I knew at all. I looked at him coldly, for there's nothing so devilish annoying as familiarities from strangers. I thought I could freeze him off.
But he only grinned. "Looking for Miss Billings?"
"I—I haven't seen her," I answered stiffly. But his question alarmed me.
He chuckled in my face. "Guess you don't know her in her clothes, eh, Dicky?" And I did not need the punch he gave me in the side to make me stagger backward. "A thousand thanks, and good-by, old chap. I see they're hauling in the plank."
He lingered for one bearlike grab at my hand.
"And say, don't forget—for I know Jack Billings better than you do—don't ever let him know about all that Scotch last night."