We hadn't more'n struck the club-house porch, and the steward had rushed out to drive us away, when Sadie gives another one of them squeals that means she's sighted something good.
"Oh, there's the Dixie Girl!" says she.
"You must have 'em bad," says I. "I don't see any girl."
"The yacht!" says she, pointin' to the end of the dock. "That big white one. It's Mrs. Brinley Cubbs' Dixie Girl. You wait here until I see if she's aboard," and off she goes.
So we lined up in front to wait, the Incubators never takin' their eyes off'n Woodie, and him as pink as a sportin' extra, and sayin' things under his breath. Every time he took a hitch sideways the whole line dressed. All hands from the club turned out to see the show, and the rockin'-chair skippers made funny cracks at us.
"Ahoy the nursery!" says one guy. "Where you bound for?"
"Ask popper," says I. "He's got the tickets."
Woodie kept his face turned and his jaw shut, and if he had any friends in the crowd I guess they didn't spot him. I'll bet he wa'n't sorry when Sadie shows up on deck and waves for us to come on.
Mrs. Brinley Cubbs was there, all right. She was a tall, loppy kind of female, ready to gush over anything. As well as I could size up the game, she was one of the near-swells, with plenty of gilt but not enough sense to use it right. Her feelin's were in good workin' order though, and she was willin' to listen to any program that Sadie had on hand.
"Bring the little dears right aboard," says she, "and we'll have them home before dark. Why, Sir Hunter, is it really you?"