But that was only the beginning of things, for two days later we had a note from him asking us to dinner.
He had only asked us to dinner once before, years ago, and that was when he was shook out of himself by a deal we’d done over pearls, and it was at a restaurant. This time he was asking us to his house.
“What’s he after?” says Buck, turning the letter over. “Day before yesterday he was giving Micky Murphy candy, and now he’s asking us to dinner. He’ll bust himself with generosity if he doesn’t mind out. Will you go?”
“Sure,” said I, and we went.
Pat was married, as perhaps I haven’t told you, and when the darkie let us in, there was Mrs. Pat waiting to receive us in the big room hung with pictures opening from the hall, and a minute after in come Pat’s daughter Sadie with her hair frizzed out, and when Pat toddled in after, if it wasn’t McMorrows Jiggs family to the life, call me a nigger.
We didn’t feel comfortable by no means, not being used to female society done up in diamonds, but they were anxious to please, though I could see plain enough that behind everything those two women looked on us as plated goods, but Pat kept the ball rolling, chatting away, and at dinner, after the champagne had gone round, the girl suddenly turns to Buck, and, “Tell us about your last voyage, Mr. Slane?” says she.
“Oh,” says Buck, “there’s nothing much to tell; we went to Levua. We’ve been there three trips; there’s several German traders we’re in with and they give us a lot of business. We’re off there again in a month.”
“Is it a long way?” she questions.
“Yes, it’s a good bit of a way,” he answers, “and it would be longer only the Greyhound is no tortoise.”
“How interesting,” she says, “and I suppose you see plenty of other islands on the way there and back. Are they as pretty as people say?”