"What?"
"Piano legs. Big as a porpoise in five years," said Skippy, putting it on for Snorky.
"I daresay," said Snorky, who continued his efforts to impress his chum by staring down a large buxom lady who happened to glance their way. "Rather good-looking, the old fighting brunette over there."
"Seemed interested in you."
"Yes, rather," said Snorky, turning for a fatuous backward glance.
"What's this?" said Skippy, suddenly interested.
Ahead by the rail two young girls were watching curiously the vanishing outlines of the harbor.
"That's class," said Snorky instantly.
"You betcha!" said Skippy, noting the large leghorn hats dripping with rosebuds, the trim ruffled organdie dresses and the twin parasols, pink and mauve. The young ladies looked up curiously at their swaggering approach and then away. Skippy in his assiduous pursuit of fiction of the romantic tinge had often read of "velvety" eyes and pondered incredulously. For the first time in his life, suddenly, in the hazards of a crowded steamer, a young girl of irreproachable manners had looked at him and the eyes were undeniably "velvety." It troubled him. Not that he was susceptible to such a point, but it stirred memories of ancient readings into the night on soft window seats, or under green trees in the troubling warmth of spring days.
"The blonde for mine," said Snorky pompously.