“I guess so,” Teddy said. “He told Sven quite a bit about me, right while I was standing there. It was rather embarrassing.”
“Why should it be embarrassing?”
Teddy hesitated. “I said `rather’ embarrassing. I qualified it.”
“I’ll qualify you, buddy, if you don’t get the hell off that bag,” Mr. McArdle said. He had just lit a fresh cigarette. “I’m going to count three. One, God damn it … Two…”
“What time is it?” Mrs. McArdle suddenly asked the backs of Teddy’s legs. “Don’t you and Booper have a swimming lesson at ten-thirty?”
“We have time,” Teddy said. “—Vloom!” He suddenly thrust his whole head out of the porthole, kept it there a few seconds, then brought it in just long enough to report, “Someone just dumped a whole garbage can of orange peels out the window.”
“Out the window. Out the window,” Mr. McArdle said sarcastically, flicking his ashes. “Out the porthole, buddy, out the porthole.” He glanced over at his wife. “Call Boston. Quick, get the Leidekker examining group on the phone.”
“Oh, you’re such a brilliant wit,” Mrs. McArdle said. “Why do you try?”
Teddy took in most of his head. “They float very nicely,” he said without turning around. “That’s interesting.”
“Teddy. For the last time. I’m going to count three, and then I’m-“