"Why—why, yes. Very pretty. I'm proud of 'em."
"But the more there are," I pointed out, "the prettier they are. Isn't that right?"
"I—I suppose so. But what has that to do with—Sparks!" His voice raised to a shout, and suddenly his pale eyes brightened. "Do you mean that—?"
"Nothing else but. That alleged Q.O. mugg, Cooper, is a phony? He's really an S.S.C.B. inspector. And since he's not riding the Saturn for his health, I'll give you one guess who he's watching—if you start with yourself."
Funny what emotion will do to a guy. Biggs was not the type to go into a blue funk. I'd seen him face danger, disgrace and death, not once but many times. Every time, he had confronted the situation calmly, coolly, nary a quake or quiver stirring him. But here, handed good news on a silver platter, I thought for a minute he was going to pass out.
His eyes grew stalks, and his knees began to rattle like a marimba. The confused burble emanating from his lips resembled the vocal efforts of a tongue-tied hippo trying to speak Choctaw. His Adam's-apple—but why mention that monstrosity? Even I don't believe the things it did, and I saw it!
Words finally grew out of the melange of gutturals, sibilants and expectorants. Biggs' eyes receded into their sockets, became dewy and wistful, like the orbs of an amour-smitten adolescent. His voice was hushed and awed.
"My own ship!" he breathed. "My own command!"
"Don't cross your bridges," I reminded him, "until they're hatched. You've still got to win your letter, chum. Two letters, in fact. I-F. You become Skipper Biggs IF you pass the exam.
"Now, get to work. And remember—don't let on you know who this Cooper is. Deodorant's the word!"