"Well, we shall be in good company at all events!" laughed Burgoyne.
"Yes, that is the recompense," commented Pendleton. "But it riles me to go down before these contemptible crowders-out, like the two yonder."
Burgoyne did not respond immediately and Porshinger's harsh voice came floating over.
"Did you see the Lorraine episode this afternoon?" he chuckled. "She came _here_--actually had the audacity to come here--and she bumped into Lorraine right there on the piazza--and he gave her the frozen face _hard_. It was great."
"Just what Lorraine should have done," Murchison replied. "It's an infernal shame that our wives and daughters should be subjected to such effrontery. The woman has about as much idea of decency as a professional of the street--to come still warm from Amherst's arms and flaunt herself before them all. I should have thought the little shame she has left would have held her from this last atrocity."
"She's a mighty good looker all right!" the other remarked. "I don't blame Amherst--not in the least."
"Sure--she's a screamer--the tall, willowy sort--Kipling's vampire kind, you know the style?" Porshinger laughed. "I wonder who will be the next one. I should not much mind taking a flyer at her myself."
Pendleton pushed back his chair sharply and got up.
"Come along," he said to Burgoyne. "I may need your help."
He drew out his gloves and crossed the piazza to the two men.
"Well, you have the requisite amount in your clothes," Murchison was saying. "But I fancy you'll have to move fast if you want to stand any chance."
The rest of the remark was cut short by Pendleton's gloves falling with a snap across Porshinger's mouth.
Crack! Again the gloves came down, and a button marked the skin of the cheek till the blood oozed out.
"I don't like the cut of your coat, Mr. Porshinger!" said Pendleton. "And just because I don't like it I'm going to give you a thrashing. Stand up and defend yourself. I don't want to hit even a cur when he's down."
"What in hell do you mean?" Porshinger shouted. "I've got no quarrel with you, Pendleton! What in hell do I care whether you like the cut of my coat or not--I'm no tailor."
"Aren't you? I thought you were--I apologize to the tailors," said Pendleton easily. "Put up your hands, you dirty scoundrel, or haven't you a single spark of courage in you?"