And you should have heard the talk they had as they loafs around the cloakroom between the numbers,—all about the awful things they did at prep school, how they bunked the masters, and smuggled brandied peaches up to their rooms, and rough-housed durin' mornin' prayers. Almost made your blood run cold—not.
When they got to discussin' the girls, though, and sayin' how such a one was a "jolly sort," and others was "bloomin' rotters," it made me seasick and it was a relief when they took to whisperin' things I couldn't hear about the chaperons. After intermission they come sneakin' in by twos and threes to hit up their cigarettes.
It was about eleven-thirty and there was four or five of 'em in the cloakroom, puffin' away languid like real clubmen, when in drifts a young lady all in pink silk and gold net and hails one of the wicked bunch.
"Bobby," says she, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
"Run on now, Vee," says he. "Told you when I asked you to come that I wasn't a dancing man, y'know."
"Fudge!" says she, stampin' her foot. "You think it's smart to take that pose, don't you? Well, you wait!"
And, say, you talk about your haughty beauts! Why, she was a little the silkiest young queen I ever had a real close view of,—the slimmest feet and ankles, reg'lar cameo-cut face all tinted up natural like a bunch of sweet peas, and a lot of straw-colored hair as fine as cobwebs. She was a thoroughbred stunner, this Miss Vee was, and mad all over.
"I haven't been on the floor for four numbers," she goes on. "You just wait!"
"You wouldn't be cad enough to peach on us for smokin', would you?" says Bobby.
"Wouldn't I, though!" says she.