“No; it’s Captain Pollock. That horse of his is a beauty, isn’t it? I wish he would trade with me,” answered Zelda.
“Horse-trading is a science, better let it alone,” declared Balcomb.
He jumped up, fumbling for his watch, which he could not see in the dark of the veranda, but he made a pretense of looking at it.
“Leighton, if we’re going to catch that nine-fifty car we’ve got to hustle. I have to see a man at the Imperial before he goes to bed. Good night, Miss Dameron; good night, Miss Merriam. Not going, Leighton? All right, I’ll see you later.”
He walked to the other end of the veranda, found his hat and coat, and bowed himself to the steps, keeping up a running fire of talk to the last. Pollock was tying his horse to a post at the side of the driveway, but Balcomb hurried past him without speaking.
Leighton groaned inwardly at the sight of Pollock, whom he liked well enough ordinarily. He did not understand the reason for Balcomb’s hurried flight, so that the humor of the situation did not strike him.
“You may have Mr. Balcomb’s seat there by the railing, if you like,” said Zelda to Pollock.
“You do me too much honor,” said the officer, as he shook hands with Leighton.
“Oh, I don’t know!” and Olive’s imitation of Balcomb’s intonation was so true to life that they all laughed.
“I don’t see why any one should laugh,” said Zelda.