She surveyed the three sober men with a practised eye. She chose the tallest, a fair, serious-looking young man standing conveniently at the drunkard’s elbow.
“Will you please take your friend away,” she said, indicating the offender with her beautiful white hand.
“Simly,” he said in a slightly subdued voice, “simly coring.”
Everybody tried for a moment to understand him.
“Look here, old man, you’ve got no business here,” said the fair young man. “You’d better come back to the club house.”
The drunken man stuck to his statement. “Simly coring,” he said a little louder.
“I think,” said a little bright-eyed man with a very cheerful yellow vest, “I think he’s apologizing. I hope so.”
The drunken man nodded his head. That among other matters.
The tall young man took his arm, but he insisted on his point. “Simly coring,” he said with emphasis. “If—if—done wan’ me to cor. Notome. Nottot.... Mean’ say. Nottot tat-tome. Nottotome. Orny way—sayin’ not-ome. No wish ’trude. No wish ’all.”
“Well, then, you see, you’d better come away.”