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"I'll work this diving stunt with Mynie Boltwood," Burton answered, "and see if I can't get together a bit of a stake." "Come around to the Bolingbroke in the morning, Burton, and ask for me." "Changed your mind? Think you'll turn me over to the police, after all?" "Haven't any such idea. I think you could be decent, if you'd give your mind to it.
Miss Boltwood, it seemed, was out. He was not sorry. He was relieved. He ducked out of the telephone-booth with a sensation of escape. Milt was in love with Claire; she was to him the purpose of life; he thought of her deeply and tenderly and longingly.
"The last person in the world I was expecting to see through the glass bottom of that boat was Hank Burton. It was the surprise of my life, and no mistake." There was something here which Mynie Boltwood could not understand. He was not ambitious in the acquirement of knowledge, however, and merely did as he was told and let it go at that. Burton sat up in the boat's bottom, and peered at Clancy.
Boltwood put in. "Hope you lose that dreadful red-headed person." "No, I can't, Mr. Boltwood. When Mr. Saxton turned on me, I swore I'd take Pinky clear through to Blewett Pass ... though not to Seattle, by golly!" "Foolish oaths should be broken," Claire platitudinized.
They bore along the lifeless Claire. Mr. Martin was an unentertaining bachelor who entertained. There were a dozen supercilious young married people at his bayside cottage when the Gilsons arrived. Among them were two eyebrow-arching young matrons whom Claire had not met Mrs. Corey and Mrs. Betz. "We've all heard of you, Miss Boltwood," said Mrs. Betz. "You come from the East, don't you?"
You're a bloomin' little island way off on the dim silver skyline." Claire knitted her brows. She had not seen Milt's rhetoric. "You're an island of Hesperyds or Hesperides. Accent on the bezuzus. Oh, yes, moondream, I think you better come. Haven't decided" Milt's tone was bland "whether to kill you or just have you pinched. Miss Boltwood! Switch off your power!"
I was workin' for a Finnski back here a ways, and he did me dirt holdin' out my wages on me till the end of the month." "Why, uh " It was Claire, not the man, who was embarrassed. He was snickering, "Come on, don't be a tightwad. Swell car poor man with no eats, not even a two-bits flop for tonight. Could yuh loosen up and slip me just a couple bones?" Mr. Boltwood intervened.
"Yes! Yes! This is Miss Boltwood!" she kept beseeching, during a long and not unheated controversy between the unknown and the crisp operator, who knew nothing of the English language beyond, "Here's your party. Why don't you talk? Speak louder!" Then came clearly, "Hear me now?" "Yes! Yes!" "Miss Boltwood?" "Yes?" "Oh. Oh, hello, Claire. This is Jeff." "Jess who?" "Not Jess. Jeff! Geoffrey!
But in his discovery of Claire Boltwood he had perceived that dressing is an art. Before he had packed, he had unhappily pawed at the prized black suit. It had become stupid. "Undertaker!" he growled.
Pinky was silent till he had eaten about two-thirds of the total amount of fried eggs, cold lamb and ice-box curios. When Claire came over to see how they fared, Pinky removed himself, with smirking humility, and firmly joined himself to Jeff and Mr. Boltwood.
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