The Haunted Pajamas. Elliott Francis Perry

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      "Thought?" Her laugh this time was explosive. "No, he never thought it; he knew I wouldn't! He knew I would be tearing around all night with the boys —that's what!"

      And dash me, if she didn't throw herself back with a kind of swagger, by Jove!

      "Why, you – you wouldn't do such a thing!" I uttered faintly.

      "Wouldn't I?" She straightened suddenly, and her lovely blue eyes narrowed at me. "Say, Mr. Lightnut, I don't want you to get me sized up wrong. I'm none of your little waxy gardenias – not much! When I'm in New York, it's the bright lights and the Great White Way for mine – yes, sir, every time!"

      And she gave me a blow on the shoulder that was like a stroke from a man's arm. It sent me down into my chair.

      "If you don't believe me," she added, her face shining with excitement, "just you ask Jack about last summer when I came through – about that joy ride to Coney with three Columbia fellows, and how we got pinched. Oh, mamma, but didn't Jack swear at me!"

      I heard a noise by the door. Jenkins stood there, his eyes sticking out like hard boiled eggs.

      "I – I'm back, sir," he said rather falteringly. "Beg pardon, sir; just thought you'd want to know. I didn't know you – h'm!" And with an odd look and a little cough Jenkins slipped away. But I scarcely noticed him at all.

      Poor misguided girl!

      My brain was buzzing like a devilish hive of bees, don't you know. By Jove, this was something awful!

      And yet – and yet – Her frank, sweet face met mine with a clear light that there was no mistaking. There was no going behind it – she was a thoroughbred, a queen – a lady, dash it! I knew it! And I just settled on that, and was ready to die right then and there if anybody dared to dispute it. I didn't care a jolly hang how she talked; it was just nothing – just the demoralizing swagger of a little boarding-school girl trying to show off like her brothers. And her language? Why, just the devilish, natural result of having a coarse, slangy brute like Billings for a brother. Poor little girl! It was a beastly shame.

      She was watching me curiously, smilingly, as she sat there, her devilishly pretty mouth puckered into a cherry as she softly whistled and drummed her shining nails upon the chair arm.

      "I'm afraid I've shocked you," she said. "Jack says you're so good."

      Dash it, somehow I felt humiliated! She said it in a way that made me feel like a silly ass, you know.

      But she wasn't thinking about me any more. Her eye fell on the tabouret, and her little hand stretched toward it.

      "May I?" she said with an arch inquiring glance. "Your cigarettes look good to me. I emptied my case an hour ago."

      And I proffered them with a show of alacrity. "Pray, pardon me," I said. "I – I never thought of you smoking." A chuckle came through the tiny teeth grasping the cigarette. "Thought I was too goody-goody, eh?"

      I stammered something – dashed if I know what – and blinked a little gloomily as she drew a brisk fire from the flame I tendered.

      Odd thing, by Jove; here I had been going to dinners, world without end, where fellows' wives and girls and sisters smoked cigarettes, and I never had thought a thing about it. But now, somehow, I didn't like it for her. Sort of thing well enough for other chaps' girls and sisters, you know, but – well, this was different, by Jove! Devilish queer thing, that, what a lot of things seem the caper for them that we don't like for "our own," eh?

      And yet – oh, I say, she certainly did look fetching about it – downright bewitching, you know! I think maybe it was because she didn't fumble the thing as if she was afraid of it – as if it was just a red hot coal and going to burn her. Most of them do, you know. No, this girl really seemed to enjoy it. Inhaled the whole thing at three draws and reached for another.

      "Do – er – you smoke much?" I ventured anxiously. "Cigarettes, you know?"

      She pulled a sparkling half-inch as she shook her little head. I felt awfully relieved. "Not for me," she remarked carelessly. "I prefer a pipe."

      "Pipe!" I repeated feebly.

      The golden head inclined. "Bet you! Good old, well-seasoned brier for mine – well-caked and a little strong." Puff-puff. "Oh, damn your patent sanitary pipes, I say!"

      And as backward I collapsed upon the cushions, she threw her leg over the arm of her chair and shot two long cones of smoke from her dainty nostrils.

      CHAPTER VI

      ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY

      A moment later I had another shock.

      "I don't blame you for looking at me so hard," she said, rubbing her chin and looking, I thought, a little confused. "For did you ever see a face like mine?"

      "I – I never did!" I said stammeringly, for, by Jove, the question was so unexpected; but I knew I said it earnestly and with conviction in every word.

      She nodded. "Never got a chance to shave, you know – caught the train by such a margin – and my kit's in that other bag. Guess I'll have to impose on you in the morning for one of your razors."

      I stared at her in horror.

      "Shave? You don't shave?" I protested blankly.

      "Myself, you mean? Have to; I haven't got a man to do it for me." She seemed to sigh. "Not old enough yet to have a man, Jack says."

      And just here her attention seemed to center on my cellarette over in the corner.

      "Gee, but it's warm to-night, isn't it?" she remarked absently.

      And there was nothing to do but take the hint or leave it; and after all, she was a guest, you know!

      "Perhaps you will permit me to offer you some refreshment," I suggested, rising. I knew it sounded devilish stiff; and I knew, moreover, that I looked like a jolly muff, in fact.

      "Perhaps I will," she chuckled. "Say, don't urge me too hard, Mr. Lightnut; you might embarrass me."

      I did not want to embarrass her. "I thought perhaps a lemon soda would refresh you," I explained. "Or, if you will allow me, I will have Jenkins make you one of his famous seltzer lemonades. Perhaps, though, you would prefer just a plain – "

      I halted in confusion, for she was laughing at me.

      "A plain cup of tea," she gurgled, "or a crème de menthe!" And then her laughter burst deliciously. "Say, do you know, honestly, I'm only just getting on to that dry humor of yours. You've had me fooled. You do it with such a serious face, you know. Say, it's great!"

      I tried to smile, but I knew it was a devilish sickly go – the more so, because just at that moment her slender fingers discarded the remnant of her last cigarette and reached for a cigar. Another instant, and she had deftly clipped and lighted it.

      I decided I wouldn't ring for Jenkins.

      I felt ashamed as I looked in the cellarette, and wondered what the deuce I should offer her. Couldn't think of anything I had ever heard of boarding-school girls going in for except ice-cream soda; and, dash it, I didn't have any ice-cream soda. Nearest СКАЧАТЬ