“Lady,” said John, swaying as by an invisible breeze, “I am trying to be as nice as I know how.”
A few scared employes later sought our tents, to apologize for John.
“John is never like this,” said one succinctly, “except when he’s this way.”
“I thought Arizona was a prohibition state,” I said, remembering the sheriff of Pima County, “where does he get it?”
Their eyes wandered to the horizon, and remained fixed there.
“Vanilla extract,” said one.
The scientifically minded Toby made an excursion to the Inn, and came back with a satisfied sniff.
“It wasn’t vanilla,” she reported positively.
Upon the hotel porch, we could see John’s white jacketed fat figure mincing up and down before a group of late-comers holding an imaginary skirt in one hand. First he was Miss Susan, red-handed and infamous; then he became himself, majestic yet forbearing.
“Took them right off my dining-room table,” we heard him say.