“Hers! She wasn’t a native then?”
“Not on your life. A New Yorker—and a clinker. That’s the mystery. Her guide came from the eastward but her camp must have been—why, what’s the matter, Coley?”
Mr. Van Duyn had put his glass upon the table and had risen heavily from his easy chair, his pale blue eyes unpleasantly prominent. He pulled at his collar-band and gasped.
“Heat—damn heat!” and walked away muttering.
It was just in the doorway that he met Phil Gallatin, who, with a smile, was extending the hand of fellowship. He glowered at the newcomer, touched the extended fingers flabbily and departed, while Gallatin watched him go, not knowing whether to be angry or only amused. But he shrugged a shoulder and joined the group near the window.
The greetings were cordial and the Colonel motioned to the servant to take Gallatin’s order.
“No, thanks, Colonel,” said Gallatin, his lips slightly compressed.
“Really! Glad to hear it, my boy. It’s a silly business.” And then to the waiting-man: “Make mine a Swissesse this time. It’s ruination, sir, this drinking when you don’t want it—just because some silly ass punches the bell.”
“But suppose you do want it,” laughed Spencer.
“Then all the more reason to refuse.”