“Kitty,” said Beverly, “told me she didn’t care about the musty old forts and things, anyhow.”
I looked at Kitty, and heard her tongue ticking away, like the little clock she was; she had her Bohm, she had her nautical costume and her Remsen cooler. These, with the lunch that would come in time, were enough for her.
“But it was such a good chance!” I exclaimed in disappointment
“Chance for what, old man?”
“To see everything—the forts, the islands—and it’s beautiful, you know, all the way to the navy yard.”
Beverly followed my glance to where the gay company was sitting among the cracked ice, and bottles, and cigar boxes, chattering volubly, with its back to the scenery. He gave his laisser-faire chuckle, and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry ‘em with forts and islands, old boy! They know what they want. No living breed on earth knows better what it wants.”
“Well, they don’t get it.”
“Ho, don’t they?”
“The cold fear of ennui gnaws at their vitals this minute.”
Shrill laughter from Kitty and Gazza served to refute my theory.