Ralph laughed absent-mindedly. “It’s a hundred to one shot that they’re quarrelling about us, though,” he said. For some mysterious reason this theory raised his spirits perceptibly.
“But—to get down to brass tacks,” Pete asked in a puzzled tone, “what have we done to make them quarrel?”
“Oh, we’ve done nothing,” Ralph answered with one of his lordly assumptions of a special knowledge. “It’s just the disorganization that always falls on women when men appear on their horizon. They’re absolutely without sex-loyalty, you know. They seem to have principle enough in regard to some things, a few things. But the moment a man appears, it’s all off. West of Suez, they’ll lie and steal; east of Suez, they’ll betray and murder as easy as breathe.”
“Cut that out, Addington,” Pete Murphy commanded in a dangerous voice. “I won’t stand for that kind of talk.”
Ralph glared. “Won’t stand for it?” he repeated. “I’d like to know how the hell you’re going to help yourself?”
“I’ll find a way, and pretty damned quick,” Pete retorted.
It was the closest approach to a quarrel that had yet occurred. The other three men hastily threw themselves into the breach. “Shut up, you mick,” Honey called to Pete. “Remember you came over in the steerage.”
Pete grinned and subsided.
“As sure as shooting,” Honey said, “those girls have quarrelled. I bet we never see them again.”
It was a long time before they saw any of them; but, curiously enough, the next time the flying-girls visited the island they came in a group.