Evening star. [volume], December 05, 1937, Page 4, Image 94

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
Sometimes it’s the most proper girls who create the biggest scandals
by John Hastings Turner
IT was somewltere off the northwest coast
of Africa that the Steamship Byronic de
veloped engine trouble. She was not ill
named, for in her short career as the very
last thing in pleasure cruise boats, she had
gained a reputation for romantic engagements
(and other engagements not quite so roman
tic). But Jane Pirie, who was nineteen years
old, and Miss Locke, who was her ex-govemess
and wore a tippet in the hottest weather, did
not know this.
The breakdown in the Byronic’s engine
room was not a serious matter; the main
thing, as always, was to keep the passengers
amused and uncomplaining during tl*e delay.
A depressed committee, consisting of Captain
Rooke, the purser, and the staff captain, met
in the captain’s cabin, to that end.
It was late, and only four young men were
left in the smoking room. Whisky and soda
had done its kindly office and those who less
than ten days ago had been strangers re
garded each other as lifelong friends.
Of the four. Bill Taske was the one who
arrested the eye. Six foot three and with the
shoulders of a bull, the gods had evidently
become enthusiastic about their handiwork
and had finished it off with as handsome a
head as could be expected this side of Cali
fornia. Women looked at him frankly as if
he were something from another world.
“It is a pity,” he was saying, in his deep
slow drawl, “that the prettiest girl on this
ship is a rabbit!” The others laughed.
“Has she given you the cold shoulder. Bill?”
asked one of them.
"Certainly not!”
A short tubby youth with a monocle
drained his glass and ordered another round.
“Which is the bunny?” he inquired.
“Jane Pirie,” answered Bill, “girl who’s
towed round by the lady who looks like the
first page of the family album. I expect she’s
the grit in the mechanism, but — what a
waste!” 1
The fat youth busily polished his eyeglass.
“Why do you call her a rabbit?” he asked.
“Because she is! She’s just like a pink
and white Victorian pet rabbit. She doesn’t
even use a lipstick. And I don’t know what
she's done with herself since she was a kid,
but she can’t play any games and -she looks
scared to death if she’s asked to!”
“Perhaps she finds Bill’s idea of a game a
bit frightening!” put in another, and chuckled
into his drink.
“No, seriously,” returned Bill, “it's pretty
amazing in this year of grace. The kid seems
to have all the whoopee left out of her; as if
she’d come to sea to qualify for a nunnery!”
“Poor, poor Bill!” murmured the fat youth.
Bill Taske flushed angrily. “Didn’t I tell
you I’ve hardly spoken two words to her?”
“Two words and faced his Waterloo!”
“Don’t be a silly ass!”
The fat youth adjusted his eyeglass and
gave Bill a prolonged scrutiny. “Oh, blond
giant,” he said, “you are blushing! Jane, the
rabbit, has found the heel of Achilles! Queer
how these Don Juans always crash heavily for
the mousy ones!”
Bill got up slowly and swayed a little.
“I will bet you,” he said solemnly, “a fiver
to a dry Martini that I will get the rabbit to
sit up and do tricks!”
The fat youth smiled. “And I repeat, my
dear Bill," he said, “Waterloo!”
Now the whole business of the wager was
extremely bad manners and not to be excused
on any account whatever. And, indeed, had
it not been for the whisky, it was not a thing
that Bill would have done. In the morning he
was definitely ashamed of the whole affair,
but he argued to himself that it was only a
bit of fun, that it would probably do the
rabbit a lot of good and open up to her, so to
speak, a whole packet of fun which was lying
about waiting to be picked up.
By the time he had shaved, he looked upon
himself as a man with a mission.
He read on the ship’s notice board that
a beach picnic had been arranged for the
afternoon for such as cared to put down their
names. In the thin handwriting of the ex
govemess, he read, “Mary Locke” and “Jane
Pine.” He added his own name.
Now, if the trouble in the engine room of
the Byronic had not been more extensive than
had been thought at first, there would have
been no picnic on the baked West African
sands, and if there had been no picnic. . . .
However. . . .
The boats landed their parties in a little
cove where some trees growing near the
water’8 edge afforded a certain amount of
shade. Most of the girls had come ashore in
sun-bathing suits but Miss Locke wore a coat
MU* ———
- “THERE’S NOTHING TO DO.” HE SAID, “BUT TO
LEAVE HIM BE. IT’S A DAISY OF A CRACK—”
and her tippet, and the rabbit looked more
of a rabbit than ever in a blue linen frock with
white collar and cuffs which, Bill said to him
self, made her look like a hospital rabbit.
A good deal of badinage and shrill laughter
accompanied the making of tea, but after
wards the heat had its way and the picnickers
lay about and dozed or sat and talked. Locke
sat stiffly on the sand knitting, and fighting
the desire for sleep; in the end her head
swayed and she leaned back against a tree.
Bill Taske took a long look at the profile
of the rabbit. It was, without question, an
extremely fascinating rabbit. What a pity it
was not alive! He moved across to it and said:
“I suppose you haven’t enough energy to
walk along and explore the other side of those
rocks?”
She considered. Then she got up and
smoothed down her frock. "Yes,” she an
swered. “If you like.”
The footing was slippery and he offered her
his hand, but she managed to allow him only
her elbow. There was something fascinating
about the blue sea against the white sand, low
cliffs sloping gently to the beach. The rabbit
said little and seemed to Bill incredibly shy.
After they had passed three coves she stopped
and said: “Oughtn’t we to be getting back?”
"I suppose we ought,” Bill replied.
“Wouldn’t do to miss the boat, would it?”
He smiled at her and here at any rate was
Illustrated by R. J. Cavaliar*
an opportunity for the pert answer, or the
barbed joke to start a flirtation. But all she
said was a grave “No.”
It’8 an impossible rabbit, he thought,
and, curiously enough, once more a feeling of
shame swept over him. “We’ll go right back!”
he said, abruptly.
He wouldn’t play the fool any longer; it j
didn’t matter what the fat boy might say
about Waterloo. But when he looked round
he saw that however they returned, it would
not be by the way they had come.
The tide had been coming in ; already waves
were licking at the cliff face on the far side of
the cove. He looked at the rabbit and saw that
she had seen too. She said nothing but put her
forefinger to her lips like a scared child.
“That’s a bore,” said Bill cheerfully, “but