“All right, Bob,” returned Lieutenant Jimmie.
Clifford opened the door and pressed the elder Morton ahead of him into a dining-room of gray-and-gold. What he saw was almost the same as he had seen in Le Minuit many weeks before: here were Nina Cordova, Nan Burdette, Hilton, and Jack—the only difference being that Jack, then in a stupor, was now joyously maudlin.
“Why, h’lo, dad,” he said, swaying up, a handsome, flushed, boyish figure. “Welcome home! Pull up chair, have li’l’ ole drink, ’n’ meet m’ frien’s. ’N’ there’s Clifford—good ole scout Clifford—meet m’ frien’s. Everybody have ’nother li’l’ ole drink.”
The other three had risen. “I’ll take it as a favor if you’ll all say good-night,” Mr. Morton said shortly. “I want to speak to my son.”
“So do we,” returned Nina Cordova in her most pertly charming manner, which she figured as irresistible. “Jack invited us to his little party, and we’re not going to insult the dear boy by walking out on him.”
“Get out—all of you!” Mr. Morton’s jaws snapped together.
“See here, we don’t stand for that line of talk, and we’re not going,” bristled Hilton.
Clifford caught Hilton by the wrist, and gave the arm a twist that made the man drop sidewise to one knee and groan. “You are all going, and, Hilton, you go first,”—and he thrust him through the door. He turned to Nan Burdette, and the star of the long-faded “Orange Blossoms.” “If you two want to avoid trouble,” he said shortly, “you’ll follow Mr. Hilton right out.”
They glowered at Clifford, but started to obey. “See here,” hiccoughed young Morton, “’f my frien’s go, I go too,”—and he swayed toward the door.
But Clifford sharply closed the door upon the pair, blocked Jack’s way, and laid a detaining hand upon Jack’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Jack,” he said, “and we’ll have that little old drink together.”