Skippy did so and surreptitiously extinguished the bandana.
"Holy Mike, we're in for it," said Snorky. "Do you know who they are?"
"Daughters of the Presbyterian minister, strict as nails—Sunday school and mission stuff. Oh Lord!"
"Pretend you knew it all along."
"And that other stuff? The dead game sporting life?"
"Stick to your guns!" said Skippy desperately.
The next moment he was at table, between Miss Caroline Bedelle and the blonde Margarita, while across the table the soft velvety eyes of Jennie looked at him sadly and reproachfully.
"Good gracious, Jack," said Snorky's sister, staring at him. "I never, never would have known you. You've gained twenty pounds."
"It's the shirt," thought Skippy, glancing down at the bulging front that gave him the torso of a wrestler. Then he began to wonder which was the owner of the still slightly moist tie. But soon all discomforts, even the intricate maze of forks and knives, were forgotten before the alarming problem of the shirt front. When he sat upright, stiff as a ramrod, it was relatively quiescent, but the moment he relaxed or bent forward to eat it bulged forth as though working on a spring, until a lurking horror that it would escape altogether began to possess him. He crept forward on his chair and balanced on the edge, trying to mitigate the conspicuous rigidity of his pose by a nonchalant coquetting with the salt cellar.