“All right, then. See you remember it. An' now get outa the way or I'll walk over you.”
Long slunk back, muttering inarticulate threats, and Saxon moved on as in a dream. Charley Long had taken water. He had been afraid of this smooth-skinned, blue-eyed boy. She was quit of him—something no other man had dared attempt for her. And Billy had liked her better than Lily Sanderson.
Twice Saxon tried to tell Billy the details of her acquaintance with Long, but each time was put off.
“I don't care a rap about it,” Billy said the second time. “You're here, ain't you?”
But she insisted, and when, worked up and angry by the recital, she had finished, he patted her hand soothingly.
“It's all right, Saxon,” he said. “He's just a big stiff. I took his measure as soon as I looked at him. He won't bother you again. I know his kind. He's a dog. Roughhouse? He couldn't rough-house a milk wagon.”
“But how do you do it?” she asked breathlessly. “Why are men so afraid of you? You're just wonderful.”
He smiled in an embarrassed way and changed the subject.
“Say,” he said, “I like your teeth. They're so white an' regular, an' not big, an' not dinky little baby's teeth either. They're ... they're just right, an' they fit you. I never seen such fine teeth on a girl yet. D'ye know, honest, they kind of make me hungry when I look at 'em. They're good enough to eat.”
At midnight, leaving the insatiable Bert and Mary still dancing, Billy and Saxon started for home. It was on his suggestion that they left early, and he felt called upon to explain.