“Yump, Pete's got a good place there.”
They glided from these serious topics into the jocose insults which are the wit of Main Street. Sam Clark was particularly apt at them. “What's this wild-eyed sale of summer caps you think you're trying to pull off?” he clamored at Harry Haydock. “Did you steal 'em, or are you just overcharging us, as usual? . . . Oh say, speaking about caps, d'I ever tell you the good one I've got on Will? The doc thinks he's a pretty good driver, fact, he thinks he's almost got human intelligence, but one time he had his machine out in the rain, and the poor fish, he hadn't put on chains, and thinks I——”
Carol had heard the story rather often. She fled back to the dancers, and at Dave Dyer's masterstroke of dropping an icicle down Mrs. McGanum's back she applauded hysterically.
They sat on the floor, devouring the food. The men giggled amiably as they passed the whisky bottle, and laughed, “There's a real sport!” when Juanita Haydock took a sip. Carol tried to follow; she believed that she desired to be drunk and riotous; but the whisky choked her and as she saw Kennicott frown she handed the bottle on repentantly. Somewhat too late she remembered that she had given up domesticity and repentance.
“Let's play charades!” said Raymie Wutherspoon.
“Oh yes, do let us,” said Ella Stowbody.
“That's the caper,” sanctioned Harry Haydock.
They interpreted the word “making” as May and King. The crown was a red flannel mitten cocked on Sam Clark's broad pink bald head. They forgot they were respectable. They made-believe. Carol was stimulated to cry:
“Let's form a dramatic club and give a play! Shall we? It's been so much fun tonight!”
They looked affable.