“No offense, my boy,” Roger put in.
“I see my mistake,” went on John Quincy. “I should have trained for this trip out here. A stiff course in a gymnasium. But don’t worry. The next lad that makes a pass at me will find a different target. I’ll do a daily three dozen and I’ll take boxing lessons. From now on until I get home, I’ll be expecting the worst.”
Roger laughed. “That’s a nasty cut on your cheek,” he remarked. “We’d better stop at this drug store and have it dressed.”
A solicitous drug clerk ministered to John Quincy with iodine, cotton and court plaster, and he reentered the limousine bearing honorably the scar of battle. The drive to Nob Hill was devoid of light chatter.
Just inside the door of Roger’s house, a whirlwind in a gay gown descended upon them. “Barbara!” Roger said. “Where did you come from?”
“Hello, old dear,” she cried, kissing him. “I motored up from Burlingame. Spending the night with you—I’m sailing on the President Tyler in the morning. Is this John Quincy?”
“Cousin John,” smiled Roger. “He deserves a kiss too. He’s had a bad evening.”
The girl moved swiftly toward the defenseless John Quincy. Again he was unprepared, and this time it was his other cheek that suffered, though not unpleasantly. “Just by way of welcome,” Barbara laughed. She was blonde and slender. John Quincy thought he had never seen so much energy imprisoned in so slight a form. “I hear you’re bound for the Islands?” she said.
“Tomorrow,” John Quincy answered. “On your boat.”
“Splendid!” she cried. “When did you get in?”
“John Quincy came this morning,” Roger told her.
“And he’s had a bad evening?” the girl said. “How lucky I came along. Where are you taking us, Roger?”
John Quincy stared. Taking them? At this hour?
“I’ll be getting along upstairs,” he ventured.
“Why, it’s just after twelve,” said Barbara. “Lots of places open. You dance, don’t you? Let me show you San Francisco. Roger’s a dear old thing—we’ll let him pay the checks.”
“Well—I—I—” stammered John Quincy. His cheek was throbbing and he thought longingly of that bed in the room upstairs. What a place, this West!
“Come along!” The girl was humming a gay little tune. All vivacity, all life. Rather pleasant sort at that. John Quincy took up his hat.
Roger’s chauffeur had lingered a moment before the house to inspect his engine. When he saw them coming down the steps, he looked as though he rather wished he hadn’t. But escape was impossible; he climbed to his place behind the wheel.
“Where to, Barbara?” Roger asked. “Tait’s?”
“Not Tait’s,” she answered. “I’ve just come from there.”
“What! I thought you motored in from Burlingame?”
“So I did—at five. I’ve traveled a bit since then. How about some chop-suey for this Boston boy?”
Good lord, John Quincy thought. Was there anything in the world he wanted less? No matter. Barbara took him among the Chinese.
He didn’t give a hang about the Chinese. Nor the Mexicans, whose restaurants interested the girl next. At the moment, he was unsympathetic toward Italy. And even toward France. But he struggled on the international round, affronting his digestion with queer dishes, and dancing thousands of miles with the slim Barbara in his arms. After scrambled eggs at a place called Pete’s Fashion, she consented to call it an evening.
As John Quincy staggered into Roger’s house, the great clock in the hall was striking three. The girl was still alert and sparkling. John Quincy hastily concealed a yawn.
“All wrong to come home so early,” she cried. “But we’ll have a dance or two on the boat. By the way, I’ve been wanting to ask. What does it mean? The injured cheek?”
“Why—er—I—” John Quincy remarked. Over the girl’s shoulder he saw Roger violently shaking his head. “Oh, that,” said John Quincy, lightly touching the wound. “That’s where the West begins. Good night. I’ve had a bully time.” And at last he got upstairs.
He stood for a moment at his bedroom window, gazing down at the torchlight procession of the streets through this amazing city. He was a little dazed. That soft warm presence close by his side in the car—pleasant, very pleasant. Remarkable girls out here. Different!
Beyond shone the harbor lights. That other girl—wonderful eyes she had. Just because she had laughed at him his treasured hat box floated now forlorn on those dark waters. He yawned again. Better be careful. Mustn’t be so easily influenced. No telling where it would end.
IV
A Friend of Tim’s
It was another of those mornings on which the fog maybe did not come. Roger and his guests were in the limousine again; it seemed to John Quincy that they had left it only a few minutes before. So it must have seemed to the chauffeur too as, sleepy-eyed, he hurried them toward the waterfront.
“By the way, John Quincy,” Roger said, “you’ll want to change your money before you go aboard.”
John Quincy gathered his wandering thoughts. “Oh, yes, of course,” he answered.
Roger smiled. “Just what sort of money would you like to change it for?” he inquired.
“Why—” began John Quincy. He stopped. “Why, I always thought—”
“Don’t pay any attention to Roger,” Barbara laughed. “He’s spoofing you.” She was fresh and blooming, a little matter like three a.m. made no difference to her. “Only about one person out of a thousand in this country knows that Hawaii is a part of the United States, and the fact annoys us deeply over in the Islands. Dear old Roger was trying to get you in wrong with me by enrolling you among the nine hundred and ninety-nine.”
“Almost did it, too,” chuckled Roger.
“Nonsense,” said Barbara. “John Quincy is too intelligent. He’s not like that congressman who wrote a letter to ‘the American Consul at Honolulu.’ ”
“Did one of them do that?” smiled John Quincy.
“He certainly did. We almost gave up the struggle after that. Then there was the senator who came out on
