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"O na, sir, you don't onderstand," replied the maid, hardly able to restrain herself from laughing outright at the stranger's gross ignorance of mining habits; "not pair o' six all to bed together to one time; you da see miners do work to bal eight hours to a spell, and has sexteen to stay 'bove ground; so one and his comarade sleeps their first eight hours 'bove ground, and then turns out for the next pair; and so they goes on, one pair in and t'other pair out, so that between sex on 'um, the bed's never to say quite empty."
Tell me more about your most interesting cases. It might make me restless." "Nothing much to tell. Life just one ptomaine after another. Cases all alike except for the primal cause." "Well, tell me something. Where've you been just now?" "Over to Iva's. She had 'em again. Ripe olives. Getting better. Where you been?" "To the Restless Sexteen Club." "Like it?" "I don't get it.
The gilt-chaired audience listened to Sable Caviaro the new Russian violinist and Slubber D. Gullion, who discoursed on the Current Trend of Current Bolshe Vikings. The refreshing episode consisted of champagne and Saratoga chips. The Restless Sexteen was the record altitude of Butterfly Center. It was the elect and select of the intellect; it was the whole show the very Wholly of Whollies.
To belong to it was canonization. Though some of its members also belonged to the Toddletopsis Club, it meant their leading a double life. The Restless Sexteen were mostly young married women with their husbands as nonresident members. They studied higher psychology and broader psychopathy. The wrestled with and threw Einstein and let themselves dream again with Freud.
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