CHAPTER VI
WHEN SKEET HAD HIS DAY
There's one thing about bein' a private sec,—you stand somewhere on the social list. It may be down towards the foot among the discards; but you're in the running.
Not that I'm thinkin' of havin' a fam'ly crest worked on my shirt sleeves, or that I'm beginnin' to sympathize with the lower clawsses. Nothing like that! Only it does help, when Marjorie, the boss's married daughter, has planned some social doin's, to get an invite like a reg'lar guy.
What do you know too? It's dance! Not out at their country place, either. She'd dragged Ferdie into town for a couple of weeks, and they'd been stayin' at the Ellins's Fifth-ave. house, just visitin' and havin' a good time. That is, Marjorie had. Ferdie, he spends his days mopin' about the club and taggin' Mr. Robert.
"Better sneak off up to the Maison Maxixe with me," says I, "and brush up on your hesitation."
A look of deep disgust from Ferdie. "I'm not a dancing man, you know," says he.
"Both feet Methodists, eh?" says I.
Ferdie stares puzzled. "It's only that I'm sure I'd look absurd," says he.
"For once," says I, "you ain't so far from wrong. I expect you would."