She half sprang toward them when Jack went down with a crash, after I had got them started on the last go. Drayton arose warily, the blood spurting from a nasty cut over the eye, where the heel of the other’s glove had scraped. The “Boiler-plate” lumbered dangerously near just then, and Natica, despite her, uttered a cry of warning.
I saw Jack turn away from the mountain in the Yale rowing shirt, and his eyes met Natica’s squarely for the first time since Cherry’s. Something he read in them made him laugh. This was only for the fraction of a second, however, for a glove, with the nth power behind it, lifted him a clear three feet into a stack of gilt chairs near his own corner.
He didn’t move, and the “Boilerplate” stared at him stupidly.
“Say, you made him look at you,” he said to Natica. “I didn’t mean to land on him blind.”
But she did not heed him. She was among the gilt chairs, with Jack Drayton’s head upon her lap. The wheels of a cab stopped outside, and the Hartopp was seizing her dazed lord and master. She had his coat and bediamonded linen in her hands, and she clutched the “Boiler-plate” firmly, leading him to the door.
“Say, Maisie, wait a minute,” he protested. “I’ve got the swell’s college shirt on, and I didn’t mean to land on him blind.”
I opened the door, for she signaled with her eyes. “Come on, Jim, there’s a dear,” she said. Between us we cajoled him into the coupe. As I shut the door, she leaned to me and whispered: “Tell her for me she’s a cat—a cruel cat.”
I handed the driver a bill. “You’ve a very bad memory, cabby, haven’t you?” I asked.
“Extremely bad, sir,” said he, touching his hat.
“But, Maisie, I’ve got the swell’s college shirt on,” I heard “Boiler-plate” insist. Then the wheels moved.