"First it's tobacco," said Olga; "now he wants to sleep. Twenty-seven girls and he wants to sleep."
"He is asleep," said the green-eyed blonde.
Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in his arms.
"Catch a hold," said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girls volunteered with a rush. "Hoist!" said Billy. They lifted him like a sleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom, where they deposited him on the bed.
Ann said to Olga; "Help me with these boots." But they resisted every tug. "It's no use," groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her bright yellow hair back from her eyes. "His feet have swollen. We'll have to cut them off."
At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope.
"Cut off whose feet?" he cried in alarm.
"Not your feet, silly," said Ann. "Your boots."
"Lay a hand on those boots," he scowled; "and I'll make me another pair out of your hides. They set me back a week's salary." Having delivered himself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep.