"Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the
cook and wire Molly to bring another. Come
along, nobody'll tell tales."

Johnnie shook his head. "'S a fact, boys,"
he said confidentially. "If I take a drink in
Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!"

His guests laughed and slapped him on the
shoulder. "Oh, we'll make it all right with
Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie."

Molly was Mrs. Gardener's name, of course.
"Molly Bawn" was painted in large blue
letters on the glossy white side of the hotel bus,
and "Molly" was engraved inside Johnnie's
ring and on his watch-case -- doubtless on his
heart, too. He was an affectionate little man,
and he thought his wife a wonderful woman;
he knew that without her he would hardly be
more than a clerk in some other man's hotel.

At a word from Kirkpatrick, d'Arnault
spread himself out over the piano, and began
to draw the dance music out of it, while the
perspiration shone on his short wool and on
his uplifted face. He looked like some glis-
tening African god of pleasure, full of strong,
savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused
to change partners or to catch breath, he
would boom out softly, "Who's that goin'

[[217]]

p216 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p217w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p218

v?